


Monsters of the Southside

by NotHereNJ (efficaceous)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Canon-Typical Slurs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/NotHereNJ
Summary: It's the FaeMickey Urban Fantasy fic I've had in my head for a month and a half.@nowherenj on tumblr@thesermymonkeys on twitterThis fic also has a  beautiful cover, designed by the fabulous wildxwiredMonsters of the Southside
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 58
Kudos: 107





	1. We watched the sunrise/Through the windows of our car/Passing giants/On the road standing guard in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else see the pictures on Twitter of Mickey with wings? The wings are the work of Fancy Fairy Wings, @TheWinningAsh on Twitter.
>
>> Did it work? [pic.twitter.com/ylgK7iVsA8](https://t.co/ylgK7iVsA8)
>> 
>> — 𝕲𝖑𝖔 (@savemecal) [June 19, 2020](https://twitter.com/savemecal/status/1274025823020908551?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> Yeah that basically took root in my head and grew into a story.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at nowherenj, and twitter @thesermymonkeys 

[ Come on Out ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khSLRfZ4wBA) \- The Airborne Toxic Event

Mickey was a young man with a whole host of secrets. The first being, he wasn’t _precisely_ a man. He was actually Fae, half Faerie by birth. This, in turn, gave him a slew of things to hide but the biggest, most blatant thing he had to hide were his wings.

Shiny, gossamer, shimmery, iridescent feathers that weren’t just visually arresting- they actually worked. _Sort of._ He can hover, if he jumps first. They can work as a sort of sight shield, if he wants them too, so he can slide out of people’s vision, walking down the street. If he’d been full Fae, they would have done other things too: detected certain specifics he had no use for, been a light in dark places, and other shit like that. Couldn’t miss what you never had, that was Mickey's position on the subject.

But mostly, he kept them hidden. They really only came out against his will when he was happy, or asleep. So he stayed awake and angry, which worked fine for him, thank you very much. It was astonishing what people wouldn’t notice if he wore a leather coat, had the right (read: _intimidating_ ) tattoos, and the best resting-bitch face in the city. Plus, he lived in the least magical place on earth, the total antithesis of Disneyland: Southside Chicago. 

The next secret was the family business. Terry, his father, had once been young and handsome, and had attracted the notice of a Fae princess who had gifted him all the perquisites the royal family had to offer. Their life together had started well, until Terry’s true colors came out- the drinking, brawling, and the cheating. When he finally crossed the line and assaulted his wife’s youngest sister, he had been forcibly divorced and kicked out of the Faerie Realm with his ‘half-breed children’ when Mickey was still young, and all his nefarious work, illegal acts, and scams since then had been done with one goal in mind: revenge, on his wife and the entire Faerie community. 

Mickey really couldn’t give two shits about revenge on a homeland he barely remembered, let alone missed, but his father was _obsessed_ with the place. It was always _Unlucky Days_ this, and _False Sisters_ that. It got old real fuckin fast, in Mickey’s opinion. Was Mickey bothered that their mother had cared so little for her children, her own flesh and blood, that she hadn’t even considered keeping them with her? Maybe. He didn’t like to think about that shit too much. 

  
  


His tattoos were another issue. He had various wards and charms tattooed on his body, as one did, human or otherwise. Protection against poisons (handy since he had a wicked nicotine and ethanol habit), never-lost runes that helped him find pretty much anything, anywhere, and there was even one set he’d designed himself. He called it ‘See what you expected’ and it did exactly that. Made people see what their preconceived notions told them, when they looked at him. Secretly, he got a kick out of it when people wrinkled their noses, stepping out of his way on the sidewalk, or whispered behind their hands about ‘the dirtiest white boy in America.’ 

The final secret, the one he was keeping from the world, his family, and on-and-off even from himself. He was gay. Queer. A fag. A big ol ‘mo. Worse yet, he was pretty sure he liked _taking_ dick, not throwing a fuck into the other guy, though he hadn’t had enough opportunity to really test his theory, aside from a few back alley assignations late at night. He hated lying on his wings, and there weren’t many men willing to get on him with his leather jacket still on, bent over in an alley. There’d been a few, but he had a suspicion that they hadn’t been the best lays. His body kept driving him, hinting that there was more… something, out there for him. 

He knew women didn’t do shit for him, had known since he was 12 and Terry had taken him to a strip club to collect a debt. His father had clapped him on the back, acting like it was the treat of the century for Mickey to be there, but all the shaking flesh and glitter just gave him a nauseous headache. The knuckle tats, the see-what-you-expect charm, didn’t really work on people experienced with the Fae, but Mickey must have managed to keep his disgust off his face enough to satisfy Terry. Or his father hadn’t really looked at him, more likely. Either way, there was no way Terry was going to accept a fudge-packing fairy for a son, so Mickey kept his shit locked down _tight_.

Tonight, his skin was crawling for a different reason. Terry had told the kids, all of them, from Tony to Mandy, to stay inside and work on the latest conversions. It was some scam where they took regular lead bullets and made them ever-so-slightly psychic, so they’d hit the person intended, no matter how bad a shot the attacker was. It would have been easier and cheaper to just learn how to fuckin shoot a gun, in Mickey’s estimation, but he knew better than to argue. He’d been at it for hours, hexing and churning out the shit, one tedious bullet at a time and he thought he was losing his mind.

He stood up, shoving his chair back, and they all looked at him dully, with the blue eyes of their mother, all varying shades and depths, that they shared. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Mandy was the one to speak up, all piss and vinegar, spiky and dark-winged, as Unseelie as they came. He loved her more than the rest of the siblings combined, and not just because she was a girl, or because she could punch well. He loved her because when they were kids, they’d protected each other, when they’d just gotten to Chicago. Those ties didn’t break, even if they did fade and thin out over time, so he knew she wasn’t really pissed, so much as curious. 

“Out for a walk,” He counted the words out on his fingers, putting one down for each word, until he was left with just his middle finger raised, “bitch.” The assembled Milkovich’s laughed and groaned, going back to the dreary task in front of them. Mickey grabbed his faithful leather coat and headed out into the cold night, hoping a change of scenery, a smoke, the darkness, or something would calm his jangling nerves.

_Nothing was wrong. Nothing was new. Why was he so unsettled?_

He wandered through the city. It was bitterly cold, and the air was actually semi-clear for once. He could see stars, when he looked between the street lights, his feet taking him where they wanted to, following a nameless thread that pulled at him until he ended up at the foot of an abandoned building frequented by drunks and addicts, who used it as a safe spot to hole up and use, sleep, and often freeze to death. Mickey didn’t give a single shit about that, all he knew was that his anxiety had been increasing the closer he got to the building, even as he was physically unable to turn his course in any other direction. He stood at the base of the exterior, hands shoved deep into the jacket’s pockets, wishing he had remembered his scarf. 

A prickle on the back of his neck, the fine hairs there, standing up, and a flash of light, high up, caught his attention, like the shine of the moon off of a piece of metal. Several stories up, the crumbling wall had given way, leaving stray chunks of cement that periodically let loose, woe betide anyone standing below. A shower of fine particulate matter spattered the ground around Mickey, and unthinkingly he brushed it from his hair. Someone must be up there, that must be what Mickey was feeling. He peered up in the darkness, trying to see what or who was up there, ready to shout and curse if they kept kicking shit down on him, when he saw a flash of color, just for a moment.

His eyes had registered what was happening but his mind was stuck, frozen in horror at what he was seeing

_a body a fuckin body holy fuck that’s a_

His own limbs moved without his conscious direction, ripping his coat off. Wings OUT, fully extended, flapping and pulling great gusts of air down as he leapt up, arms upstretched, reaching thoughtlessly. His mind was still refusing to accept that there was a human body hurtling towards the ground, towards _him_ , until it crashed into him, the person’s limbs loose and heavy and bearing them both down to the ground in a mixed up pile of legs and arms and pain. 

There was a pause, when Mickey considered whether he was dead, but then his lungs gasped in air and he knew he wasn’t so lucky.

Mickey thought one of his ribs might be bruised, because as the other person rolled off of him with a deep groan, he couldn’t take in a full breath without a deep ache in his chest. Nothing felt broken though, which was weird, right? 

_Shouldn’t one or both of them be seriously injured, after a fall from that height?_

His wings had thankfully retracted when he hit the ground, and his automatic thought was to blindly swipe his hand out, trying to reach for his coat, trying to cover up. He found it on his third pass, and pulled it close. His next thought was to wonder what the hell had just happened. Had the person, a guy by the size of the bastard, been pushed? Fallen? Jumped?

All he could hear for a moment was the panting beside him. Mickey turned away, threading his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, wincing at the pull in his torso, but determined not to show off any more of himself tonight than he already had. Task accomplished, he turned his attention to the man. The guy had on a grey hoodie, and as he’d rolled off of Mickey ( _you’re welcome, fucker_ ) the hood had mostly come down, displaying a shock of bright red hair. Young guy, skinny, but not soft, though he couldn’t see the face that went with the hair yet. Mickey ran a hand over his own shoulder, feeling a bruise forming where the guy’s bony-ass elbow had struck him. 

Red turned, gingerly, demonstrating that he too wasn’t broken, just badly bruised, but before he could so much as get his eyes focused, Mickey dipped. The impression he had gotten of the face was pale skin, pale as his own, but covered in freckles. Instead of staying, inspecting, commiserating or asking stupid questions, he just bailed on the guy: leaped up, ran as fast as he could, kept running, cold air burning his lungs until he sat on his own broken porch steps.

His wings, _his fucking wings_ , had been out, _in public_ . It wasn’t daylight, thank fuck, but still, in his whole life Mickey had never made such a glaring mistake. He shuddered, thinking of how Terry would have reacted if he’d seen, or if he somehow found out. He didn’t _think_ the guy had seen anything as he fell from the building, at least nothing he could testify to. Mickey was probably safe there. 

_Was ‘probably safe’ good enough?_

Not if he wanted to stay breathing it wasn’t. He was going to have to hunt down the redhead, find out what he knew, make sure he wouldn’t talk. Might have to read Mandy in on this one, she was the queen bitch at memory charms, but she wouldn’t give him one for free. Maybe he should just find the guy first, see if he knew anything, before he went to Mandy. He rubbed the side of his thumb against his lip, activating the tiny charm embedded in the never-lost [arrow tattoo ](https://nextluxury.com/wp-content/uploads/cool-simple-arrow-male-thumb-tattoos.jpg). He could activate his charms in a variety of ways, but this one was old; he’d had the arrow since he was a child. He thought he had a vague, wispy memory of his mother doing a stick’n’poke on his hand when he was very small, telling him it would help them, if he ever got lost. 

Well, fuck that bitch, she clearly didn’t care if he was lost now. The tattoo glowed softly, showing him generally where the redhead was at the moment. It didn’t show distance, just direction and movement. The guy wasn’t moving. At least he wasn’t still sitting at the foot of the abandoned building, he was somewhere to Mickey’s south. Good enough, for now. 

If his furtive nightly jerk-off session in the shower was filled with pale, freckled skin, and red hair, long limbs wrapping around him, well, no one had to know about that either. Mickey was a man of secrets, after all.


	2. And I saw you/ So then in secret/ I fell like the jumper off the bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey hunts down the fallen man.

[ Control - Motherfolk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6HFbT9kfs0)

The first chance Mickey had to hunt the fallen man was two nights later. Terry had come home and turned the house upside down, fists swinging, drunk and angry. The work the siblings had done had not mollified him in the least, and they’d suffered through an obsessive tirade that started by characterizing them as lazy (for using the magic Terry himself lacked access to) before taking a familiar turn into enumerating the ways their mother would pay for her transgressions. Never mind that _Terry_ was the one who had first transgressed in that relationship, never able to move past having a wife with more power in her little finger than he had in all of his sinew and muscles. Now, that same superiority-inferiority complex was being taken out on the children of the union, the same way it had been for over a decade. Mickey glowered, trying to sit stoically as his father ranted and raved, tossing furniture like matchsticks. Just cause he knew Jamie could fix it with a snap didn’t mean he should treat their shit like, well, _shit_.

After wreaking as much havoc as possible in a few hours, Terry staggered out the front door and down the street, looking for the next bar, the next whore, the next drink or the next fight. _Good riddance_. Tony, Colin, Jamie, Iggy, Mickey, and Mandy looked over the house, tiredly fixing what they could before scattering to various corners to nurse their emotional scars. Terry used to hit them all the time, now he saved the physical violence up for special occasions. Tonight wasn’t even a five on the Terry-scale. It could have been worse, Mickey knew. Didn’t mean he had to like it when he tried his best to follow orders and go nothing but more messes to clean up.

The next day was spent painfully repairing everything Terry had fucked up and making deliveries. His older brothers had all been tapped to go on a run, somewhere up north, with Terry, so Mickey and Mandy had to make sure the charmed bullets found the right addresses, which was harder than it should have been, given that Terry hadn’t deigned to tell them who the buyer was. The whole day his mind was consumed with the red-headed man, becoming more and more convinced the guy hadn’t fallen off the building, that something darker had been at work. 

Finally, after 11pm, Mandy had stopped and brushed off her hands on her legs.

“I’m fuckin done here. Dad can bitch if he wants, but I have plans.”

“You have _plans_? Dad’s gonna do more than bitch if this shit isn’t right when he gets back.”

“Then you finish it! I need to get laid and I ain’t gonna pass up a night with everyone out of the house.”

Mickey stood and pointedly looked around the living room, then down at his own body. “ _Everyone_?”

“Yep. Get the fuck out, asswipe. Don’t come back until the sun comes up.”

He didn’t bother trying to ask where she expected him to go; she knew he could take care of himself. “Fine. But you owe me.”

She flipped him off and flounced off to her room, slamming the door.

_Well, shit._

The obvious solution to his questions about the red-haired mystery man was to hunt him down tonight. But Mickey had other pressing needs. He also needed to get laid, or at least get his dick wet. He thought if he could just scratch the itch, the unending compulsion that had plagued him since that night at the abandoned building would finally fade. 

There was only one place he could go tonight to fulfill those needs, so he grabbed the ubiquitous leather jacket, checked his hair, and headed out the door. Boystown it would be.

* * *

He ended up at a club called the Fairy Tail, which even he had to admit was ironic. At the bar, he got his drinks for free (passed off a fake gold coin to the bartender, easy con), and sat on a stool, checking out the display of flesh on offer. 

A blond man was standing on the stage gyrating slowly, subtly out of sync with the incessant beat of the music, gold booty shorts leaving little to the imagination. Mickey wasn’t impressed, with the dancing or the anatomy on display. The next dancer up was another blond, this one built like a lineman, hairy and happy. The guy at least had rhythm, which Mickey appreciated, but that was all he liked about him. The guy seemed like he wanted to take someone home and fuckin cuddle. Plus, he had a small army of fans at his feet, competing to push money into his red shorts. 

With a sigh, Mickey turned his attention away from the dancers. The night was slipping away, and his prospects of finding a quick fuck were shrinking by the moment. Someone slapped a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard at the leather of his jacket, and he spun, fist ready to punch the face of the intrusive motherfucker, but he stopped, fist balled up by his chin. 

“Oh, hey, Mikhailo!” The hand’s owner, a tan man with no hair or eyebrows, and fine features, smiled at him, utterly unphased by the threat. Mickey knew the face well. 

“Yo, what up, Li?” Li, or Liderc was an old family friend, familiar with the Fae, as he himself was anything but human as well.

“Just the usual, lookin’ for a friend for the night.”

Mickey gestured broadly with his drink, “Take your pick, man. Any of these rubes should fill your tank.”

“Ah, my tastes are varied indeed, but I was thinking of something specific. Someone sad, missing a loved one, maybe.”

“Blah, blah, blah, you’ll fill their emotional needs, then their physical needs, all the while suctioning off whatever the fuck it is you get out of the proposition.” Mickey had heard it all.

“Mikhailo, you _wound_ me! I provide a service, for which I am recompensed in energy. We can’t all drink and recharge from nature without thought, you winged fucker.” 

Liderc grinned and Mickey laughed. “Ain’t my fault I get fed this way, unlike some of you incubus-ass motherfuckers. Blame Mother Nature.”

“I’ll give her a piece of my mind, next time I find the bitch. So who looks sad to you tonight? Help a brother out?”

Mickey looked around, studying each person closely. Many of them looked pathetic, but true sadness, what Liderc needed, was different. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the currents of emotion, located and reached for a scent of sorrow: it smelled like woodsmoke, and sea spray. Face turning blindly, he opened his eyes to see a lanky redhead step onto the stage. 

_Couldn’t be- could it?_

Nope. The dancer’s body was smooth, shaved, pale, _sure_ , but no bruises, unless they were all on his dick and ass, covered by black shorts and the glittery scarf that hung loosely around his neck. Liderc watched Mickey’s gaze avidly.

“This one? He has the sorrow?”

Nibbling his lower lip, Mickey considered. 

Yeah, the dancer was deeply fucking sad. Which was a damn shame, cause he was good at his job, body moving like water, all flexing muscles and lean planes, eye rimmed with kohl, glitter dusting his chest. Did Mickey want to let Liderc take this one? Making a snap decision, he shook his head firmly. 

“Not that one. Ain’t got it. Sorry, man.”

Liderc didn’t look the least upset, looked intrigued in fact, as he stared at Mickey. 

“Mikhailo, I think that you are lying to me.” Mickey opened his mouth to protest, but Li waved his hand like he was waving away Mickey’s objections. “Not to worry, I will leave this one for you. Next time, however, I will not be so generous.”

That struck home. Debts and honor were a matter of life and death to the Fae. Owning someone a favor was a blood debt that you didn’t want to incur. Mickey’s face got hard, and he again tried to respond, but Liderc slapped him lightly on the cheek.

“Not a debt, asshole. Not even a favor. Just a thing that friends do.”

_Oh, right. Friends._

“Yeah, ok. Whatever.” As Liderc moved away, still on the hunt, Mickey took a big gulp of his drink, eyes drawn back to the undulating redhead on the stage. Was it the hair that had him so hot and bothered? Why did he feel like the guy was familiar somehow? The only redhead he even vaguely knew was probably still lying in bed whining and pounding tylenol, if he couldn’t get his hands on something stronger. Mickey chugged the dregs of his drink and stood up, hyping himself up to make a move.

He flexed his toes in his boots, feeling his skin move, knowing on his left ankle a tattoo of a [ fishhook ](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/g8iBSTHkL9W-d7t62UT6Mtumk66hMPQrMnKJ1cuGm2y8YfOdILjJb_YbhqK_Wm47BZnRWUcCyyRSLsrNL2eMLlBAKgDcroa0HgHNn7kj_9MzldMDEDvRIzwCD0v_CYhoD8Uwqm84ykJSOKKBAQ) moved along with it. As he began the process of sending a pulse of energy down to activate the charm, the redhead’s eyes fell on him and stuck, like he’d been poleaxed, the heat pulsing between them, even though Mickey wasn’t anywhere near the stage. 

Had he - had he fucked up the charm?

 _Didn’t realize I even got it started…_

His attention was captivated as the redhead gave him a half smile, tipping his head and gesturing to the open space in front of him, where paying customers should have been vying to shove cash in his face, or shorts. Mickey wasn’t here for that shit, so he arched an eyebrow, and cocked his own head towards the back door, hoping Red would get the message. A little nod told him the message was received. Forgetting entirely about the charm snafu, Mickey tore his eyes away and stalked out, into the cold, dark alley.

Impatient, he lit a cigarette and smoked pensively, trying to look casual while he considered what was about to go down. He was assuming the redhead was a bottom; Mickey preferred to bottom but with his wings, lying on his back was out of the question, as was getting fucked against an alley wall. Bending over was ok, as long as he kept his jacket on, and the other person kept his hands to himself. That could work, he mused, getting into the fantasy a little, his cock already feeling heavier in his jeans. No boxers, obviously, and he was already prepped. What could he say, he was a fuckin optimist.

The redhead appeared in the alley, still shirtless, wearing only that glittery, feathery boa and his legs bare aside from the black shorts and pair of sneakers. He was taller than he had looked on stage, like, _weirdly_ tall, and for a moment Mickey gaped, before getting his wits together. 

“Ain’t you cold, firecrotch?”

“Nah,” the giant admitted, “I run hot.”

Finally seeing him up close, Mickey had a few questions.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“25,” came the defiant response, even as his green eyes darted away.

“Try again.” Mickey could taste the lie, even without any magical aid.

“Ok, fine, I’m 20, 21 in a few weeks.” The guy held his gaze this time, which didn’t make his words taste any more true. Mickey decided to accept the probable lie.

“Cool story, bro. You bottom?”

“Top.” The added admission looked like it pained the guy. 

_Shit_.

“Me too.” Mickey wasn’t, not really. He was a bottom bitch at heart, but the complications were too great, so he’d been hoping the guy was at least vers enough to take it from him. They were playing a complicated game of chicken, where Mickey wasn’t going to back down. He’d walk, if it came to that, just go home and use a toy, Mandy could get over herself.

Still busy playing out the scenarios in his head, Mickey was shocked when the redhead dropped to his knees in the dirty alley and reached for Mickey’s belt. 

_Ok, this could work…_

Mickey hadn’t been on the receiving end of a lot of blowjobs, mostly due to the complexities of his life, but he had a secret craving for them, watched a shit ton of porn just focused on slow, sensual, oral worship. 

The redhead looked up at him, holding the open flaps of his jeans, as if he were asking permission. 

_Why was this a bad idea, again?_

Unable to remember any good reason, Mickey gave a little nod, nostrils flaring in anticipation. The guy reached into his jeans, pulling out Mickey’s dick, which was rapidly hardening even from that simple contact. It had been too long since anyone else had touched his cock. 

He braced himself, one arm holding onto a nearby lightpost, even though the light itself was out, bulb smashed long ago and never replaced. The fingers on his dick were shockingly hot, like the guy’s body _was_ actually a few degrees higher than a normal human being’s. That was weird, but Mickey’s thoughts were immediately distracted by the feeling of those hot, calloused palms tugging his cock with just the right amount of pressure to bring him to full hardness in a matter of moments. It was like the guy’s huge hands had just come from holding a hot mug of coffee, and the heat was seeping into Mickey’s body through his dick, reaching up into his blood, pulse beginning to race.

He was waiting, eyes narrowed, chin up, for the wet warmth of a mouth, waiting and waiting, as the man below him jerked him tightly. Mickey finally realized the fucker was _teasing_ him. 

“Yo, it ain’t gonna suck itself.” He looked down, and the stupid ginger was smiling up at him, head once again tilted to the side. 

On the verge of pulling away, Mickey had opened his mouth to call this whole mess off, ready to walk, when his breath stuttered and stopped in his throat. That unnatural heat was now consuming him, dick first, as a lush wetness surrounded him, a hot silken tongue rubbing at his frenulum with every pass, sucking him deeper. 

He blamed the fact that he’d been worked up for days over the mystery redhead for the embarrassing squeak that came out of his mouth. Hoping to prevent a recurrence, he balled up his free fist and shoved it into his own mouth, biting down to catch any more sounds, like the whimper that wanted to emerge when the redhead’s mouth pulled back, leaving Mickey’s cock bobbing wetly between them. 

“Put your hand on my head,” he said, as seriously as if they were discussing library books. “Wanna hear you.” Then he made the oddest movement, rubbing his cheek against Mickey’s dick, like a cat rubbed at the legs of its owner walking past. Mickey’s dick was into it, and he was willing to play along, so he unclenched his fist, and brought it down to rest in the red hair that felt softer than he had expected. He could feel some hair product in it, slicking it back, but it still felt silken and pliant. 

The guy let out a whimper in the back of his throat, and it was probably the hottest thing Mickey had ever heard as he slid Mickey’s cock into his throat and just- kept- going- until Mickey was hitting the back of his throat, the guy’s nose buried in the wiry hair at the base of his shaft. His eyes drifted shut, just enjoying. The heat and wetness around his cock rippled, and he realized the guy was swallowing, letting his throat milk Mickey’s dick. The thought alone made his balls draw up, and his hand gripped tightly at the man’s flame-colored hair. 

His wings flexed and Mickey’s eyes popped open wide. That was just not happening, an impending orgasm shouldn’t be enough reason for them to want to come out. He looked down, face drawn into a grimace, torn between the pleasure and his very real fears- he saw the wide green eyes glittering, tears standing out in the very corners as the man at his feet fucked Mickey’s dick into his mouth like he was starving for it. Mickey couldn’t help it, he thrust shallowly once, twice, then groaned as, without any polite warning, he loosed pulse after pulse of hot come, searing up the length of his dick and out into the man’s mouth. 

“Shit, sorry, fuck!” Red just stayed there, rocked back and sitting on his heels, a small smile on his lips, wiping away excess saliva with his thumb. Mickey pulled back, the shoulders of his jacket just barely touching the wall behind him, tucking his dick away, which put his hands in Red’s line of sight, maybe for the first time that night.

“Nice tats.”

Mickey stared at him, trying to figure out what that meant, but it seemed to genuinely be some kind of compliment. He knew how his tattoos looked to humans, like he’d had them done by a 12 year-old with advanced Parkinson’s. 

“I was just a kid, and I thought they made me look tough.” The admission felt good, like a way of thanking the guy. 

_Wait_ …

The guy had blown him. 

Mickey hadn’t done **anything** for him. Not gotten him off, not given him cash, nothing. 

Oh fuck, this is why he didn’t do this shit, now he owed the guy a favor. And not like a ‘no big deal’ favor you could forget about, but a Fae Blood Favor.  
  


The redhead stood, carefully, brushing a few stones from his knees; those had to have hurt, Mickey thought uncharacteristically. But the guy was acting like it was no more than simple dust, even though he could clearly see the angry, red divots, and even a spot of blood.

He ducked his head, not meeting Mickey’s gaze. “Seems to be a lot of guys walking around with knuckle tats these days, been seeing them everywhere.” 

No. _No way._

He reached out one shaking hand, touching the ginger giant’s obliques. His fingers came away tacky, thick pancake-y makeup on his fingertips. 

This night was going from bad to worse. A favor, and now here he was, and what did he remember? What else had he seen that night? Mickey _needed_ to know.

“Yeah, no. Same tats,” he admitted.

“I know, I was just trying to be nice and not creepy.”

“This is you bein _not_ creepy?”

“Well, less creepy, I guess? The whole thing is still kinda fuzzy, I just know you like, helped?”

“Helped. Sure.”

“So now we’re even.”

“That’s what this was?” Mickey hated the way his voice rose. “Payback?”

“No, I mean, you’re hot, so it wasn’t like it was a chore, I just figured since you showed up here, and you flagged _me_ down, you knew?”

_Fuuuuck_. 

“What did you see, man?” His hands were gripping the flimsy glitter boa, unintentionally pulling the man down to his own eye level, and closer to his face. The green eyes slanted away, fixed on Mickey’s mouth, tongue licking out, wetting the swollen lips that had just been wrapped around his dick. 

“Like I said, it’s all a blur, I think I hit my head, maybe?”

“Yeah, on my fuckin’ shoulder.” Mickey muttered darkly. “Shouldn’t you be at home, in bed, or somethin’?”

“Nah, I bounce back fast. Plus, no work, no cash.”

“Didn’t look like you were rakin it in back there.”

“Wasn’t trying to catch anyone else’s attention. Already made bank for the night on a bachelor party a few hours back.”

“Oh.” Mickey as fucking confused, wrong-footed. He now owed this man something, and he still wasn’t convinced he hadn’t seen the wings. Even thinking about them made them stir, rippling across his back with a rustle that caught the ginger’s attention. 

Mickey brought his hand up, fingers pinching the prominent, freckled chin in a bid to capture his focus. “Eyes up here, Red.”

“It’s Ian, actually.”

“Great, Ian, ok, follow along. I need to-”

“No, you’re supposed to say, ‘Hi, Ian, my name is …’ cause I’ve been calling you Blue, and I’m guessing it’s not your actual name.”

“You want to know my name? Is that a thing I can do for you?” He held his breath, hoping he could get away this easily. Telling his name would _totally_ be a favor, since he never gave it out to his casual hookups.

“Only if you want to man, don’t do me any favors.”

Mickey moaned in dismay. He was _so_ fucked.

“What did you see? The other night?” Shaking the guy by the chin, he didn’t even care what happened to cause the giant moron to fall out of the sky anymore, he just needed to make sure his secret was safe.

“See? Nothing, I just, I mean I’m really grateful you were there and all, not sure what would have-”

Mickey stepped to this side, and the redhead, Ian’s, eyes followed his mouth longingly. 

_Fat chance._ Mickey didn’t kiss. Not cause of magic, or faeries, or shit. It was just who he was, the act too intimate, too personal. _No thanks._

“Great, you saw nothing, you’re super grateful, you’re welcome,” (though Mickey knew he still owed the fucker, the mathematics of Fae Debts were as arcane as they were powerful, and no accidental prepayment in the world would suffice) “I’ve got someplace to be.” He didn’t. Actually, he didn’t have anywhere to go. Mandy had been very clear about his not returning before sunrise. 

“You sure? I’m pretty much off the clock, and I could use some food.”

Mickey opened his mouth, about to ask if _this_ was a favor, and Ian amended, “But only if, like, you want to. Not for me.”

He wanted to run, disappear in the night and never look back. But it was only 2am, and he had four cold hours to fill. Liderc had indubitably found a fix, and Mickey didn’t have a plan. 

He closed his mouth, and gave a brisk nod. 

“Really? Ok, cool, just, like, wait here? I’ll get dressed and meet you in five, and we can go to the 24-hour diner on the corner. Great pancakes, seriously, the best, you’ll love them!” The guy was rambling in his eagerness. Why was he so eager to hang out with Mickey, of all people? His natural skepticism and suspicious nature were clanging loud alarms in his head, but he just gave another nod, and pulled out a cigarette.

Ian slipped in the door with a quick glance back, making sure he was still there. Mickey hunched over, to light his smoke, and then, as soon as the door clicked shut, he bolted out of the alley. 

Pancakes in a warm diner had sounded good, too good to be true, really. 

He spent the night on top of the abandoned building, inspecting the roof to see where the guy could have fallen from, but finding no evidence. Only a half-concrete wall, all the way around, that would have been nearly impossible to _accidentally_ slip over. He had dark thoughts about what had really happened that night, but it was none of his fucking business, he knew full well.

It was cold up here, but it was safe, he reminded himself. He still had to find a way to repay the debt, and adding more interaction would only complicate matters too much. He could taste the lie in his mouth, and spat on the rooftop, gazing up at the lonely stars.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Liderc is my version of [NoHo Hank](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUliAN4NYHU) , from Barry.  
> 2\. The fairy blowjob favor theory came from this thread: https://alaskamann.tumblr.com/  
> 3\. Posting schedule TBD, I write 800-2000 words a day, but each chapter varies in length. I have a plan! I will stick to the plan!  
> 4\. I need a reader/cheerleader for this one, please do comment if you want in!


	3. And the water/Down below will be keeping this/And I will let you too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey tries to set some rules, and meets up with Ian again.

[ Motherfolk - All That’s Left ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRIBhahSfnM)

For a whole week, Mickey tried to put the redhead, _Ian_ , out of his mind. Seven days and seven nights passed like slow punishment, Terry conveniently having nothing on hand to occupy his time. The house was full of his siblings, all smoking weed, playing xBox, and talking about tits and pussy. Mandy would swan in, cook a meal, smack a few skulls, and then lock herself in her room. Terry was spending every day drinking around town, and every night slumped on the sagging couch. The whole family was on pause, waiting for Terry to come up with the next phase of his plan, the next scam, or con that would bring him one step closer to revenge on his ex-wife, and the entire Faerie Realm. Terry had cunning and ruthlessness, but he wasn’t terribly smart, so the wait dragged on.

Mickey could have given him some ideas, if he’d been asked. But Terry had little use for the runt Milkovich, the flying bitch, as his father so frequently taunted him. Apparently, Terry had held out hope with the birth of every one of his children that the wings would somehow skip a generation, leaving a child with all the power and none of the blatant biological differences. His bitter disappointment at each child’s appearance had grown with each subsequent progeny’s entrance into the world, and he hadn’t even bothered to see Mandy for a month after her birth. 

So, _no_ , Mickey wasn’t offering up any brilliant ideas for his father, instead spending his days flipping through gun magazines, planning new enchantments and charms, and sketching new tattoos to go with them. Waiting around, doing nothing, it grated on him, gave his brain time to wander to things he had no business perseverating on. His mind stubbornly kept turning back to the club, seeing the tall man dancing, body writhing, red mouth open, licking at Mickey’s cock, throat bulging as he swallowed down Mickey’s come. To his everlasting shame, he had brought himself off no fewer than 13 times to the memory in the ensuing days.

On the seventh night, he gave up, gave in, and decided to go out. The need to repay the favor was a weight on his chest, nearly physical in its impact on his ability to breathe freely. He had a whole series of ideas, a gold coin in his pocket, and a few other pretty baubles he might be able to give the guy as payment. 

For the favor. 

Of sucking his dick like he was a delicious delicacy. 

Fuck, Mickey was thinking in alliteration, which was always a bad sign.

He had other questions, too, like a creeping suspicion that Ian wasn’t entirely human. The height, the hair, the instant attraction Mickey had felt upon seeing his body: that was all magic bullshit. No way Mickey would have looked twice at him if there wasn’t something else at play. Didn’t mean he _didn’t_ want some more of that brand of magic bullshit. Just had to set some rules. No kissing, no fucking, no givin out his number, no tellin his name, and the wings stayed hidden. Easy, totally doable. 

It was still early evening when he snuck out, Terry already blitzed out of his mind, stretched out on the couch, snoring and sleepily scratching his balls through his pants. _Gross_. 

Mickey made his way back to the Fairy Tail, and stood in the middle of the dance floor, motionless amidst the swaying bodies and pounding music, scanning the crowd, looking for the flame hair above the masses. Nothing. Individual dancers were on a catwalk, better ones than the week before, all in the uniform of booty shorts, plus various accoutrements. Huffing out a sigh, he threaded his way through the humans and ended up at the DJ booth. He rapped on the railing once, to get the woman’s attention. She swayed to the music, two ponytails of rainbow-colored plastic extensions bouncing along with her movements. Noticing his efforts, she lifted the earphones off one side of her head, and quirked an eyebrow. 

“Looking for someone.”

“You and everyone else here. Take your pick, go make a new friend out there.”

“Yeah, no. Pale, red head, tall, kinda alien looking?” _Shit, maybe the guy was actually an alien?_

The DJ just shrugged. He would have to give her more.

“Name’s Ian?”

That seemed to ring a bell, or act as a password.

“Oh, yeah, Ian. He’s in the champagne room tonight. Takes a benny to get back there, then you negotiate with your dancer. You in?” She eyed his worn leather jacket, assessing his ability to pay for the service, making his hackles rise.

“Ey, I got the cash.” Ok, he _didn’t_ have the cash. But he had magic, which was just as good. 

“Cool, cool. Head back, I’ll give them the heads up.” The DJ picked up a tiny cell phone and tapped out a text message, before pointing one finger to a solid wooden door to the side of the catwalk that Mickey hadn’t noticed before.

\---

The champagne room was not what Mickey had expected. He’d had visions of cheesy red velvet everywhere, small tables, booths with heavy curtains pulled shut. Instead, he stood in a long hallway lined with doors. Each had a small pair of bulbs outside, one red and one white. Most of the red bulbs were illuminated, but a few doors were open a few inches, and had corresponding white bulbs lit up. 

_So help me gods, if the red bulb just means the room is occupied…_

Sitting just inside the hallway’s entrance was a small man, perched on a stool. The man was old as dirt, wrinkled and wizened, and smelled like heavy enchantments had been laid on him. Mickey squinted, trying to see through them, but only got a glimpse of a much younger, more attractive person of indeterminate gender before the vision blurred. 

“Lilly said you’re here for Ian?”

Mickey nodded, not trusting his voice. He was here for the guy, but not for the reasons the old man thought. 

“Hundred up front, rest goes to him.”

Reaching deep into a pocket, Mickey rubbed quickly at a coin with his thumb, over and over, until it thinned out to paper, pulling it out and presenting it folded over.

The being on the stool held the bill up to the light, then _licked_ it, before shoving it into a metal box between his legs. It would turn back into a coin in an hour or so, but until then, it would look, feel, smell, and apparently even taste like an authentic treasury note. 

“Room three, on the left.” The being retreated, Mickey of no more interest to him.

Given that the two rooms had red bulbs lit up, the first open door on the left was Room three. Mickey slipped in the door, shutting it behind him. The space was the size of a walk-in closet, roughly. There was a loveseat shoved in at one end, and a flatscreen television hung on the opposite wall. A pole stood in the only empty corner. The red alien was [ sprawled ](https://www.deviantart.com/roxination/art/GAME-BOY-89548081) over the loveseat, long legs stretching up the wall, head falling off the edge. He wore the ever-present shorts, and some sneakers. Big fuckin sneakers, Mickey noted absently. 

He stood in the doorway, suddenly uncertain. He’d had a whole plan, how he’d bluster in, force the guy to take his money, then, maybe-

“Hey, Blue.” The giant hadn’t moved, so his voice was thick, his smile unmistakable. “Ran out on me last time, yet here you are again. What gives?”

“Still owe you for that shit,” Mickey was horrified as he heard the truth falling out of his mouth.

Ian shifted, sitting up, mouth set in a hard line. “You really don’t owe me, m’ not a hooker. That was- like, recreational, ok?”

_If only Mickey could get off the hook so easily, if only._

He stepped further into the tiny room, closing the door with his hip. 

“What d’ ya want here, Red? You want me to suck your dick every day for a year? You want me to be your _boyfriend_?” He made sure to add a sardonic twist to the word, making it sound like a dirty word, “You want cash? Fuckin’ tell me and I’ll make it happen, but you gotta - you gotta want something.” He hoped Ian would just ignore the way his voice had broken. “Ain’t nothin in the world for free, let alone-” he made a gesture, trying to indicate his dick, the guy’s mouth, and the space between them, “ shit like that.”

The ginger leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The space between them seemed to shrink, Mickey felt like he could count every freckle on the guy’s face, god, there had to be _millions_ of them.

“This might come as a shock to you, Blue, but again, I am _not_ a prostitute. I sucked you off because I wanted to. Fuckin mistake, won’t happen again.” That was surprisingly disappointing for Mickey to hear. “You wanna do me a favor? Great, cool, leave. Don’t come back.” It was the out Mickey had been looking for, the verbal contract he could use. Oddly, now, he didn’t want to leave the man alone. Very much the opposite, in fact.

Hardly able to believe himself, he crossed his arms and squared his stance. “Nope. Pick somethin’ else.”

The club dancer threw up his hands in disgust. “Jesus, what’s wrong with you? You come in, say you need to repay me, I tell you what I want and you just say ‘no’? What the fuck, Blue?”

Mickey shrugged, arms still crossed. He was enjoying watching the giant get heated up, the way his skin began to flush as his emotions spread. 

“Could at least tell me your name?”

Mickey thought back to his rules, considering and rejecting the offer.

“Don’t think so. Blue’s fine.“

“This game sucks, man.” But an odd look had come into the seated man’s eyes, as he looked Mickey up and down, from his well-worn boots, jeans-clad calves, thick thighs straining the fabric, black leather jacket firmly in place. His glance was anything but casual, he was studying Mickey’s body, and Mickey could see the outline of an admirable cock taking shape in those tight shorts, the view bringing heat pooling in Mickey’s chest, making him want to preen. 

_Look at me, look at me, see me._

Ian’s eyes were hooded, cagey. “Last offer, you don’t take this one, I call Elliot and you’re banned for life, you got me?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but nodded. He’d decide if the offer was any good, then go from there. No bouncer in the world could kick him out if he didn’t really want to go.

Red leaned back, spreading his knees, arms stretching from one end of the loveseat to the other. “I want a kiss.”

Mickey’s jaw dropped, and he couldn’t keep his bewilderment off his face. 

“Nuh uh, no way. Try again.”

Ian grinned, “Yes, way. Let me kiss you or get the fuck out. And don’t bother coming back, cause I won’t change my mind. I’m a stubborn motherfucker, my sister always tells me.”

_Well, fuck._

Mickey had walked right into this one, like a moron, just barefaced let himself be led into this fiasco and he couldn’t see a quick way out, short of asking Mandy to help him. 

_Was he that desperate yet?_

He bit at one thumb nail, thinking. He could just make it a quick peck, then he wouldn’t have to tell Mandy about the whole mess, it would be done and dusted.

“One kiss and we’ll be even?” 

_Gods help him, he was considering doing this, wasn’t he?_

“Sure, Blue. One kiss, and you can walk, run, fuckin fly away.” Mickey narrowed his eyes, wondering what the hell _that_ meant?

“One kiss,” Mickey repeated. 

“One little kiss,” Ian confirmed. 

_What could possibly go wrong? Other than everything, of course._

“Fine, let’s get this over with.”

The redhead brought his knees closer together and patted the space he’d created. _Was he really suggesting Mickey sit in his lap?_ That power dynamic was totally against all of Mickey’s previous experiences, but on the other hand, his back would be free. This was probably just an intimidation tactic, he told himself, just a ploy to make Mickey walk away. The guy may not have known why, but he’d clearly figured out that Mickey felt like he owed him, that it was important. 

  
  
  


Bluffing was something Mickey knew well, so he didn’t let his hesitance show on his face, just strutted over, spread his thighs wide, and dropped heavily into the other man’s lap, well away from his waist, ass nearly on his knees. 

“Ah ah ah,” Ian scolded teasingly. He reached out, taking handfuls of Mickey’s ass, and pulled him in until their crotches were flush. 

_Fuck, that had felt good, warmth seeping through from those oversized mitts..._

But he couldn’t let the alien know. “Let’s get this over with,” refusing to meet those forest green eyes, just staring at the guy’s lips again, like he was ensorceled and couldn't look away. That smell again, regret, charred wood, and sea salt, filled his nostrils. It wasn’t anything external, no soap or cologne; this was the man’s psychic scent, unmistakable. 

He felt gentle hands begin to peel the coat off and he smacked one away. “Coat stays on, or I’m out. We do this my way or you can fuck off.”

A huffing laugh filled the space between them, as Mickey bit his lip, worrying at with a sharp canine. 

“Coat on, got it.”

He didn’t quite know how to turn this situation back to his advantage, too enamored with the heat and pressure he could feel against the seam of his jeans. Even from this position, Ian had some inches on him, and Mickey had to look up through his lashes to try and see what he was thinking. 

In a reversal of their roles from the week before, the giant alien brought one hand up, and gripped Mickey by the back of the neck, thumb softly stroking the delicate skin behind his ear. 

_Wow, ok._

That felt good. The hand on the back of his neck slowly gained weight and heft, as Ian used the connection to pull him in. Not sure what to do with his hands, he settled them on the other man’s chest, ready to push himself back, away, off, if it became necessary. All thoughts of quick pecks were quickly fleeing Mickey’s mind, leaving a pit of desire and a pounding in his veins. Their faces were so close, he could smell the other man’s breath, a not unpleasant mix of soda and mint and something else, something he wanted desperately to taste. He watched, almost cross-eyed, as their lips finally met, just a delicate brush of flesh, searing him like a burn. When the ginger pulled back slightly, Mickey’s hands dug in, claw-like, trying for all the world to pull him back to his mouth by the flesh of his bare chest alone. 

The giant chuckled, and repeated the brushing kiss, tracing his lips across Mickey’s then trailing them across his jaw. Mickey could go now, he realized, bargain fulfilled. But up until now, it had all been fire and heat between them. With these soft, teasing kisses, Mickey was skating on ice, flying through cold clouds of mist where he could see for miles in every direction. It’s like parts of him have woken up, for the first time in his life, new eyes opening, and he had new senses to perceive the world through, all icy and hard and translucent, and he wanted _more_. 

He growled, sinking his nails further into the other man’s bare skin, hoping he was leaving marks. The light grazing trail of touches over his face shifted, came back to his mouth, and he opened his lips hopefully, trying to tempt Ian. Finally, _finally_ , they kissed, Mickey sighing into it, lost in the warmth, the taste of the other man. He had thought it would be fevered, biting, but this- this was more like sips of cool water when he was thirsty, kisses like oxygen being fed to him one by one.

Ian pulled back, meeting his eyes. “D’you know how gorgeous you are?”

Mickey blushed, slanting his eyes away, he could feel the heat suffusing his skin, knew the other man was watching it avidly. “M’ not.” He wasn’t being modest, even without the See What You Expect charm, he knew he was a short, thick asshole. His mouth was too big, and he couldn’t grow a beard to save his life. The wings, those were beautiful, not that anyone else ever got to admire them. 

The hand on the back of his neck squeezed, fingers tipping his chin up. “Really, Blue. Really beautiful. These eyes, I bet lots of guys chase you around just hoping for a scowl.”

Mickey demonstrated said scowl, but the giant just pulled him back in by his neck, slipping that incandescent tongue past Mickey’s pout, utterly distracting him. Everything negative Mickey had ever believed about kissing ( _sloppy, pointless, too personal, germs_ ) had been consumed, burnt away in the heat kindled between the two men.

A surprising rap at the door startled them, and Mickey nearly leapt out of Ian’s lap, until two firm hands held him in place by the shoulders, placed a little too close for comfort to Mickey’s wings under the heavy leather jacket. 

“Fuck off, Elliot!” Ian shouted past Mickey’s ear.

“Everything ok in there, Curtis?”

“Fine, beat it!”

“Get the cash upfront, kid!”

Rather than continuing the shouted conversation through the door, Ian just directed a murderous gaze at it, as if he could see the man on the other side, before reaching down to swiftly pull off one gigantic sneaker, hurling it at the door, making a satisfying _thwack_. 

Mickey didn’t flinch at the shouts, or the shoe throwing. He didn’t even dedicate much attention to the odd name. _Curtis_ ?

His mind was occupied elsewhere. At the first sound of an intruder, Mickey’s wings had flexed warningly, threatening to envelope both men. It was meant as a defense mechanism, he knew, but there was no way to explain to his wings that they were _fine_ , they were perfectly safe, and coming out right now was the exact wrong move. He just focused on breathing calmly, telling his wings they weren’t in imminent danger, they could just chill the fuck out. 

He knew it was more than just the danger, though. In the Faerie realm, wings played an active role in day to day interactions, indicating mood, like an extra set of eyebrows, or a semi-sentient tail. From his brothers, he’d heard that wings could be involved in significant sexual encounters, something about heightening the experience for both parties. Obviously Mickey and Mandy had no experience on that count, but Tony had gotten laid a few times before they left the Fae Realm, and during his younger sibling’s adolescence he’d tortured them by talking about how much _better_ it made sex, how everything was so much more _vivid_ and _meaningful_. 

The younger Milkovich’s had come to believe these tales were mostly apocryphal, just another way an older sibling could tease younger ones. Now Mickey knew the stories were true, because his wings were perturbed, slipping around his back, wanting to come out and taste the freckles sprayed across Ian’s chest and shoulders. That couldn’t happen; ergo, he needed to keep his head in the game. 

He made an admirable effort, tried to get up, wrenching away from the hand on his neck, but Ian just brought both hands to Mickey’s hips, pulling him forward and in, making all logical thought fly out of Mickey’s head as he felt their clothed cocks slide together. Instead of pushing the pale alien away, he wrapped his tattooed fingers behind the freckled neck, hissing “Do that again or I’ll bite your tongue off,” and slotted their lips together to get another taste of the other man’s mouth. Ian obliged, setting up a blistering pace, dragging Mickey into him, thrusting his hips up for maximum contact. 

They weren’t even naked and it was already the best sex Mickey’d ever had. He was moments from coming, and he knew he’d have to keep his attention split, or the wings would burst forth, probably in a spray of rainbows and glitter, if his luck was anything to go by. No matter how sure he was that Ian was _other_ too, that didn’t mean he could expose his secrets that way. 

He broke the kiss, burying his head in the redhead’s neck, biting at the speckles, sucking bruises into the fair skin as he felt his orgasm approaching, letting the huge, fiery hands lift and press at his ass, grinding into him. A wanton moan slid from between his lips, and he didn’t even care when he heard the answering groan from the dancer.

“Feels fucking gorgeous, Blue, lemme see those eyes as I come-”

Mickey considered it for only a moment before agreeing, wanting to see the other man’s, _Ian’s_ , face as he got off. He lifted his head from the angry red marks trailing up the pale column of neck, hips still being ground urgently up to meet Ian’s cock through the skimpy shorts. 

Green met blue, both men keening out their climaxes, each a little shocked at the suddenness of reaching the tipping point, spilling into their respective clothing. Mickey shuddered through the aftershocks, feeling the wetness seep into his jeans, as Ian rocked up into him once more, trying to drag out his own pleasure just a little longer. The wings had graduated to full on rustling, and the back of his jacket was puffed out, but Mickey sincerely hoped the alien was too distracted by his own climax to pay any attention. 

Finally though chasing his orgasm, Ian looked in awe at Mickey. “That was- I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, putting his scowl firmly back in place, finally pulling away to sit on the arm of the loveseat, facing Ian, who turned his body so they were still face to face, though not quite as closely as they had been. The room and loveseat were small though, so the distance, physically and emotionally, was hard to find. 

Ian grinned at him, a boyish charm oozing from every pore. Mickey hated his face, a little, as much as he wanted to lean in and taste the smile with his own lips. 

“Blue, you are _such_ a bottom.” 

Mickey kicked him then, not too hard, and in the knee, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

“You are though! Why’d you lie about it last time?” The redhead leaned back, arms crossed behind his head on the wall. 

“Don’t let random fuckers in alleys get on me, ok?”

“What about friendly fuckers who have comfortable beds less than two blocks away?”

_Cocky asshole._

“Them neither.”

“Sure, Blue, keep tellin yourself that. Once you sampled the goods you already came back for more. Think that’ll be enough?”

Mickey knew it wouldn’t be, damn it. He’d gotten a good perspective on the alien’s cock, which was freakishly large, even beyond the proportions of the rest of his body. He knew he wanted it inside him, but he was also more than a little scared about the prospect. Plus, all the other complications that still needed to be addressed.

“You didn’t _fall_ off the building, did you?” It was Ian’s turn to be confused, then understanding dawned as Mickey continued. “I checked up there, last week. Had a look around. Nowhere you could accidentally slip, no marks of a fight or shit. Wasn’t an accident at all, was it?”

“I mean, _technically_ , it was the biggest mistake possible, so there’s that.” Ian replied weakly, eyes downcast.

“So why'd you want to die at 19? The fuck you got to be so broke up about?”

That got him eye contact, “m’ 20.”

“Whatever. Not even legal to drink yet and you wanna do that shit?”

Ian heaved a sigh. “If I tell you, you’re gonna leave. You’re gonna freak out, and then you’ll leave, and I really _really_ wanted to fuck you, Blue. It’s a cryin shame, the whole mess.”

Mickey was intrigued, wondering what could be so bad that it would cause him, Mickey fuckin’ Milkovich, son of Terry the Diasporic, to leave. Aside from the two times he’d already bailed on the guy in front of him, of course.

“Fuckin try me, Red.” He kicked at the guys knee again, friendly-like.

“I have a mental illness, ok? Bipolar. High high’s, low low’s.”

“You were so low you were ready to off yourself two days before you sucked me off in the alley?”

“Ah, well, no, not exactly. I take my meds, I just- I had this bad breakup a while back, plus some family shit, and I kept thinkin’ that they’d all be better off without me.” The giant’s voice was small, and he’d curled himself up, taking up less than half the loveseat suddenly.

Mickey’s traitorous wings prickled with an unfamiliar urge to comfort the dancer, to sit beside him and extend around him until they were hidden from the world, just the two of them in a perfect, safe place. 

He shook himself. _No such shit_. No place was safe, not for him, not ever.

“You dumb or something?”

“The fuck, Blue? I’m not dumb. I’m sick, I just told you-”

“Yeah, yeah, bipolar, got it. I mean thinking they’d be better without you, that’s dumb as shit.” A small smile was blooming under the freckles.

“I kinda realized that. Pretty much the moment I started falling, I wished I were back up there, or at home in my own bed, or whatever. Then all I remember is hitting you.”

“Still got the fuckin bruises. You got a hard head, man.”

Ian shrugged helplessly. He wasn’t quite as huddled and shrunken as he’d been moments ago, but Mickey still needed to know more.

“Not gonna try again, right?”

“I promise not to try and jump off a tall building again, no.”

That promise had holes big enough for Mickey to fly through.

“And no gettin’ smart with pills or razors, either. I heard someone say you might be a good lay, and I got plans for you, so no kamikaze bullshit, right?”

“Plans, eh?” The dancer crawled up to where Mickey perched on the arm of the loveseat, walking on his knees across the cushions, placing his arms on either side of Mickey’s body, caging him. 

“Not right this second, bitch. Got shit to do.”

Ian pressed their lips together suddenly, clearly pouring all his emotional baggage and drama into the kiss, thanking Mickey, making promises Mickey’s heart chose not to acknowledge. 

How had Mickey been missing out on this, on kissing, for so many years? He was rapidly becoming a fan, especially when delivered from kiss-swollen lips attached to a pale, freckled, alien-looking, giant moron. 

Maybe he had a little more time for this tonight, just to make sure the kid had his head on all the way straight. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled back, head nearly touching the wall behind him. 

"Gotta take this." 

The ginger watched, sitting back on his heels.

It was just a text from Mandy, but it told him more than enough. There was a job, and it started _now_. 

"Shit, I gotta go."

"What about 'plans'?" Ian made air quotes and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

" 'Nother time."

"So what, I just wait here until you show up again? No way, gimme your number."

_Fuck, another rule being tested._

How could he get around this without giving out his number?

"Can't do that, Red. Not safe. But gimme yours, and I'll- I'll be in touch, ok?"

He could call or text after he blocked his number first, maybe ran a few searches on the guy, made sure he was on the up and up. Or as as squeaky clean as a 20 year old club dancer who tried to jump off a building could be.

Petulantly, Ian recited his number as Mickey stood, making his way to the door.

"It's Ian Gallagher, three a's, two l's."

"Ok, I got it, I got it."

The goodbye was possibly the most awkward thing Mickey had ever lived through, unwilling to slip back into the soft kisses once the door was open. But at least the kid saw him leave this time. That was, like, progress, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Pls don’t look too closely at anyone’s ages/timeline. Everyone’s an adult here, the end.)


	4. Cause I wanna be like the wind/I wanna run with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian run into someone who isn’t happy to see them. The wings protecc! They attacc! They a whole snacc!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: My knowledge of witchcraft and the Fae is almost entirely derived from White Wolf’s Changeling RPG and Stephen Zielinski’s Bad Magic.

[ Motherfolk - I Know ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ce2jCwz49Tw)

_“Really?” It was the giant’s turn to stare in confusion as Mickey turned to face the wall and unbuckled his belt, letting his jeans slide to his knees, watching over his shoulder._

_“Ready when you are, Red.”_

_He settled in, waiting for the guy to do something other than gawp. Peering over his shoulder, he could see Red look around, like he was checking for hidden cameras, then a smile beginning to grow on his face, his eyes looking like he was coming awake for the first time. He advanced on Mickey, stalking towards him. Mickey had one hand on the wall, the other on his own cock, just holding it, feeling it fill and thicken in his hand, as Red reached up, laying his huge palm over Mickey’s wrist, holding him in place._

_Ok, maybe this was a good idea._

_The guy leaned forward, trying to nuzzle at Mickey’s neck, pushing down the collar of the leather jacket, but he twisted away with a low growl. “None a’ that. Just get on me.”_

_Roughly, Red shoved a finger into Mickey, hissing in a breath when he felt how slick and open he was. “You got yourself ready?”_

_“Yeah, man, come on already, or get the fuck outta here.”_

_Mickey felt the blunt, damp head of a cock slide against his hole then, slapping a few times as the tall man jerked himself to readiness. It felt big, and weirdly hot-_

Mickey awoke with a start, his own cock hard pressed against his mattress, iridescent wings softly draped over his back as he’d laid sleeping, immersed in yet another dream about the Jolly Red Giant. 

He hadn’t called the guy yet, all his time for the past few days had been eaten up by the task Mandy had dumped in his lap, unwilling to do Terry’s bidding herself on this one. Mandy had promised him something he wanted badly if he took the job. A protection gig, 24/7 detail following around a bigwig’s wife as she went from salon to shop, mall to masseuse, bank to bedroom. It took almost no brain power, and even less magic, but somehow it was part of Terry’s grand plan to get revenge. Maybe the bigwig husband had connections, or some shit. Mickey didn’t even bother trying to follow the machinations anymore. 

( _Later, he would wish that he had._ )

He’d finally been released from duty late last night, and returned home to crash into his bed, dreams full of dimly lit alleys. Checking the clock now, he saw that it was already early afternoon, nearly 1pm. He’d slept for over 12 hours, and he had two urgent needs. In the bathroom, he emptied his overfull bladder, lighting his first cigarette of the day. 

In the kitchen, he picked up the item Mandy had left him, and studied it, shoving it in a pocket. After he scrounged up an unfulfilling late breakfast of one cold, stale pop tart, ( _what was even the point of Iggy’s dumbass hoarding and horn o’ plenty powers, if there was no breakfast?)_ he was left with nothing but empty time to fill, his phone burning a hole in his pocket. 

Because despite himself, Mickey _was_ worried. The promises he’d extracted hadn’t been extensive enough, or binding enough that he could feel confident the guy hadn’t had any other bright ideas in the intervening time. Time and again, he’d pulled his phone from his pocket on the job, looked at the number, considering, then slid it away. How had the guy wormed his way this deeply into Mickey’s brain so quickly? Clearly there was dark magic at work, he decided. Didn’t mean it felt any less urgent. It was more than the promise of a quick fuck, but that, combined with the dream he’d just woken from, made the decision easier.

Fine. _Fine_. It was just a call, right? Gallagher could be busy, workin or shit. He might not even pick up. 

But even as Mickey told himself these lies, he was punching the keys to block his own number, then dialing the alien’s number, finger shaking a little in anticipation. It was just the dream, had him all hot n’ bothered still, he told himself as the trilling tone rang once, then twice. 

“Hey?” The giant sounded like he, too, had just woken up, voice clogged with dreams.

“Yo, Gallagher.” Mickey kept his voice steady, disinterested.

“Blue…” The voice practically purred his nickname, making it sound filthy.

“Busy?”

“Right now?”

“No, in 3 hours. Yes, right fuckin now.”

“I could be free. What did you have in mind?”

_You. Me. Fucking._

“I need food. Meet me at the convenience store on Ogden and St. Louis in 15, k?”

“Blue, I don’t think that’s such a go-”

Mickey hung up the phone. 

Either the guy would meet him, or he wouldn’t. Either he wanted Mickey, or he didn’t. No skin off Mickey’s back. The lie tasted foul and he spat into the sink as he ducked back into his room to get dressed.

* * *

It had taken Mickey longer than 15 minutes to get to the store, because he lost some time messing with his hair, before he got mad at himself, and gave up on styling it, letting the spikes go where they wanted. Just like the rest of his life, it seemed. He attended to a few other personal details as well. 

Gallagher wasn’t immediately obvious as he waited to for the traffic to ebb so he could cross the street. He’d kinda been expecting the guy to be leaning on the wall under the broad red awning, hands behind his back. 

Cars were flying past on the slushy road, ignoring the slick driving conditions. One caught his attention, and not just because it was cruising at five miles under the speed limit. It was a [ white on white Mustang: ‘74 ](https://cnet2.cbsistatic.com/img/ivx_nTqcZ1ZOs4os-fDFcxmJ7hU=/980x0/2013/12/02/3c5bfb7d-6788-11e3-846b-14feb5ca9861/1974_Ford_Mustang_II_CN7403-393.jpg), if Mickey knew his shit. The man in the driver’s seat swung his head as the car rolled past and Mickey’s blood ran cold. 

_Terry_. 

He blinked, and the image was gone; the car was helmed by an old Black man who bore no resemblance to his father. He knew, he _knew_ , Terry didn’t have access to the magic needed to change his appearance that drastically, so Mickey just shook his head, trying to keep his shit in check, and crossed the road to the store.

He glanced up at the sky as he headed into the Kash N Grab: the cloud cover was low and heavy, the promise of more snow coming soon. A man sat behind the counter, eyes pinned to Mickey as he wandered the aisles, randomly picking out junk food. He had every intention of paying ( _sort of_ ), so the non-stop glaring was giving him hives. 

The little bell over the door jingled and both Mickey and the man behind the counter looked at the door. Gallagher stood in the entrance, door still partially open. He was dressed like a normal human today, but Mickey wasn’t fooled. The red hair was a blaring sign to one like him. 

The store clerk (owner?) was staring at the giant, mouth open. 

_How did he even know the giant?_

“Yo, Gallagher, over here.” Mickey tossed him a can of pringles, which he caught easily, ducking his head as he came to stand behind Mickey, eyes downcast.

The clerk’s stare had morphed in a moue of displeasure, and his clean, tidy fingernails were tapping out an angry tattoo on the lacquered counter top. 

Mickey stopped, arms full of food, and foisted them off to Gallagher. He walked up and stood in front of the counter, arms crossed across his chest so his knuckle tats were on full display.

“The fuck, man? We got a problem here?”

Instead of replying to him, the clerk leaned around him and addressed the redhead, acting like Mickey was invisible.

“Ian, I’m so sorry. You don’t need to do this though, just come and talk to me. We can go get some coffee, I’ll close the store for an hour.”

A bitter laugh came from behind Mickey, and the puzzle pieces started shuffle and come together.

“Come on, Ian, please? I miss you. I- I need you. No one understands me like you. Linda doesn-”

Mickey raised his eyebrows and cut the man off. 

“-Bitch, does he look like he wants to talk to you right now? We’re just gettin some fuel before we go and bang it out a few more times, so go find yourself a new fuck buddy, ok? He ain’t got time for your bullshit no more.” Mickey made a dismissive hand gesture, basically shoo’ing the guy off. 

The giant sucked in an audible breath, then stepped up beside Mickey, glaring at the man behind the counter, who just gaped at them.

“Is that true, Ian?”

Mickey turned quickly, looking up into the radiant green eyes, checking for permission. What he saw there staggered him, it was like everything the other man felt was right on his face, the ocean spray and the burning fires and the sadness and now a new note, the smell of ozone, total trust in Mickey’s judgement. Time to make the fool behind the counter regret opening his mouth. Mickey might not have been interested in any long-term commitment shit, but there was no way in hell he was going to let the halfwit owner take the alien from his grasp before he got that dick in his ass at least a few times. Possessive didn't even begin to describe Mickey: he'd once set his favorite comic book on fire just to prevent Iggy from reading it.

Still standing beside Ian, he slid one hand swiftly under the leather belt and reached into the other man’s jeans, grasping and caressing at what he found. He brought his free hand up, pulling Gallagher’s neck down to his mouth, sucking a huge love bite on the pale flesh there. The redhead leaned in, eyes closing and a small moan issued from between his parted lips.

“Ian, I- I can’t watch you like this, please, I need to talk to you without this- where’d you even find him, he’s so dirty…” The man’s nose wrinkled, not just at Mickey’s blatant display of possession, but also at the people-repelling visual he knew he gave off. 

The clerk or owner or fucking _whatever_ continued, “Wait, I know him, he’s a fuckin Milkovich, I _know_ you. Mike- Mark? The little one, no, Mickey. I know you, Mickey Milkovich.”

“Fuckin’ good for you.” Mickey snarled, mouthing at the mark he’d already made on Ian’s neck.

The bells over the door jingled again and a pair of tweenage girls stepped in the door and looked in, eyes wide at the scene before them. 

“Get the fuck out, we’re busy.” Mickey snapped at them, at the same time as the man behind the counter stepped from behind it, voice also harsh, “We’re closed!” Mickey’s hand never stopped stroking Ian’s cock in his pants.

The two girls scuttled out, and the man flipped the lock on the front door, spitting more words at Ian, “So, what, you’re _with_ someone now?”

Ian opened his eyes, glancing quickly at the man, shrugging his shoulders helplessly, before being drawn back to stare at Mickey’s blue eyes.

“I’m gonna take a wild stab, you see me right here, so you kinda know it’s me.” Mickey addressed the clerk/owner, continuing to watch Gallagher’s pupils dilate as his cock responded to the ministrations of Mickey’s palm. He could see the pulse bounding in the vein on the side of the giant’s neck, knew he was playing a dangerous game, testing his own rules.

“Ian, I can give you all that! I’ll leave Linda, we can be together! Just let me explain!”

_This fucker._

The alien clearly had no interest in the promises being made, was solely focused on Mickey, the hand moving on his cock and the mouth on his skin making him gasp out little panting breaths that Mickey wanted to permanently etch into his own lungs. Mickey traced his lips along the giant’s throat, free hand cupping the freckled jaw, before pulling him into one of those mind-numbing, breath-stopping kisses where the world stood still, or ceased to exist, or just all faded away while he got lost on the heat and taste of the other man. 

As consumed as he was, Mickey did **not** miss the click of a gun’s safety being released behind the counter.

He pulled away from Ian’s mouth regretfully, about to make a smart remark about pulling weapons on customers bein’ bad for business, when he heard the shot fired. The noise stunned him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, holding tightly to Gallagher’s hard dick and neck. He felt an odd, very soft pop against his skin.

The sound of the shot was a surprise on many counts, the foremost being that usually, one heard the shot after being hit by the bullet. Then he felt it, a cool breeze across his back. 

His _bare_ back.

His wings were out, and curled protectively around him and Ian. 

“What the fuck are _those_?” That high-pitched screech came from the man behind the counter, the man with the gun, Gallagher’s ex, apparently, who had shot at Mickey. 

_Rude_.

Mickey pulled his hand slowly out of Gallagher’s pants, trying to see if he felt pain anywhere, looking the redhead up and down in the filtered light through his wings, seeing no blood or holes. 

_Thank gods._

The ex was still squawking, and Mickey could see by the shadows that he was waving the gun around. 

_That had to stop_. 

He shoved a hand into his own pocket and pulled out Mandy’s gift, a scrap of paper with some lines scribbled in her messy handwriting. He stuffed it into his mouth, chewing at the dry paper until it was wet enough to swallow, and then used the spell he’d just gotten to wipe the entire incident from the gunman’s memory. He knew it had worked, because the distressed complaints faded out, and he heard the man sink to the floor, gun spinning away across the laminate floor. He’d wake up in a few hours none the wiser, but with a bitch of a headache. Mickey had halfway planned to use it on the giant, but that bird was long flown.

It felt like it was safe to bring down his defenses, so he shook his shoulders once, feeling his wings willfully ignore him, then again more sharply, before they reluctantly uncaged the two men. The wings refused to completely retract, so he stood in the center of a circle, scraps of his jacket and shirt around them on the ground, wings out, in the middle of a store at fucking 2:00pm on a weekday. Terry would shit a brick if he found out about this, and Mickey had just blown his hard earned memory charm on Firecrotch’s ex. Speaking of whom…

“Blue, what are those?” The voice that came out of Gallagher’s mouth was unsteady, sounding like he was at the bottom of a deep well.

“Uh, these are my wings, man.”

“You have wings. Ok. Cool, cool. Are you- are you human? Like, are you a- vampire-thing, maybe?” His voice rose a little, like being a vampire made any sense at all.

“No, not a fuckin vampire. Those ain’t real. I’m- uh, I’m half human.” 

“And your name’s Mickey, Mickey Milkovich?”

_Fuck, he’d been hoping Red hadn’t caught that part._

“Yeah, hey, hi,” he said lamely.

“Dude, what the fuck!” Ian surprised him by slamming a weighty fist into Mickey’s shoulder, making him stumble back, wings flapping to keep him upright. 

_Here it came._

“You have _wings_! Fairy wings! You can probably fucking fly, you’re not even a whole ass human!”

“Ain’t like you’re a whole ass human either! All tall and- and- and hot and shit!” Mickey stammered, gesturing angrily to Ian’s whole body.

Gallagher’s jaw dropped and he sputtered out his protest, “I _am_! I am a whole ass human! Like 100%!”

“No way, bitch, you can’t JUST be human-” Mickey was getting pissed. He’d shown his, now it was the giant’s turn to disclose. “-You’re too tall, and your hands are always hot, hung like a god, and you look like a fucking alien, and I don’t- I don’t look at humans like I- humans don’t look like you!” 

“I’m a _ginger_ and I run hot! I told you all that, like, the first time we met, Mickey! Whereas you failed to mention some very vital, crucial information, like your name, and oh, yeah, that you have _wings_ that can protect you from fucking bullets!”

“Didn’t know they did that,” he mumbled sullenly. 

Ian was staring at the wings, hands fisted at his sides. He wasn’t hard anymore, which was a damn shame.

“That’s how you saved me, isn’t it? You used your-” Ian waved a hand at Mickey’s partially retracted wings, “-your whatever, and you caught me. That’s why neither of us got hurt. Fuckin hell, Blue, what were you even doing out there?”

“Had a feelin’.” Mickey admitted. “Like I was late for something important, and I just kinda followed it, and ended up there.” He stared at the floor. This was going sideways, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

He sensed, more than heard Gallagher step behind him. Mickey spun, keeping his bare chest between Ian and the wings, until he heard the heavy sigh.

“Can I- can I see them? They’re- they’re like your eyes, Blue. Been dreamin about your eyes.”

Mickey huffed out his disbelief, but he did a quarter turn, keeping his eyes fixed on Gallagher as he relaxed, letting the wings spread to their full span. One wingtip knocked a box of cereal off a shelf. 

_Couldn’t believe he was letting a full human see the wings._

Ian reached out a tentative hand, and Mickey hissed, automatically pulling his wings in tight to his body. The tall man just looked at him calmly, and Mickey slowly let the wings back out, resigned to having them touched. As kids, his siblings had done their share of tormenting each other by pulling, scratching, and stabbing each other’s wings. He didn’t expect this touch to feel any different, was anticipating the familiar discomfort and pain they all felt when another being touched their wings. 

“I found a bird with a broken wing, once when I was just a kid.” Ian was talking as he looked his fill at the wings. “Brought it home in an old newspaper, asked my older brother to help me fix it. I was pretty young, still believed he could fix anything. We made a whole splint thing out of popsicle sticks and rubber bands. I seriously went in the yard and dug up worms to offer it to eat; I think my sister had to stop me from trying to chew them up for the bird.” He laughed, a little sadly. “Day later, I came home and the bird was gone. My sister told me he was all healed and just flew away. I was a kid, and I was dumb, but I wasn’t _that_ dumb.”

Mickey felt a stab of sadness for the small child who had wanted to heal a wounded animal and gotten nothing but pain.

“Mine are bigger,” Mickey said, because he felt like he had to say something, or his feelings, _fuckin feelings_ , _man_ , would come pouring out of his mouth against his will. 

“Yeah, Mickey- Mick, they sure are.” There was a smile and laugh he could taste, honeyed and crystalline. 

Mickey closed his eyes, holding his breath, and willing his wings to stretch back out. 

“Easy,” Ian murmured, stepping back to allow Mickey room to maneuver.

Mickey tried a flutter, just to show off a little. Ian stood quietly while Mickey twisted and stretched.

“Can I touch now?” he finally asked.

_No. Yes. Gods, please._

Mickey dropped his chin to his chest and mumbled something Ian correctly interpreted as permission.

Ian’s first touch wasn’t hesitant or cruel - he just laid a palm over Mickey’s lower left wing and pressed gently.

“Oh,” Mickey breathed.

“Too hard?”

“Fuckin’ sensitive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ian promised. He kept his motions gentle and ranging, petting at Mickey’s feathers in little movements, fingers never staying too long in one spot, but Mickey’s head was swimming anyway.

Should he tell him? Say ‘ _Red, it feels like you’re jerkin’ me off when you touch me like that,_ ’ that was probably too much- but Mickey could feel himself getting hard already, his erection being to arch against the thin material of his boxers and the weight of his jeans.

“They - they’re actually changing color, aren’t they?” Ian asked quietly. “I mean, right now?”

Mickey twisted around to look over his shoulder at where Ian was staring, just behind his shoulder blades and under the wing bones. Sure enough, his right wing where Ian was watching was a noticeably lighter shade than his left, the feathers shifting too tellingly at Ian’s touch. “They react to emotion,” he finally admitted.

Ian mulled that over for several seconds as he worked. “They got darker when you were protecting us,” he concluded.

“Yeah.” Mickey didn’t mention the other half of the equation - _they’re getting brighter because you’re you and seven hells, you’re actually touching them ._

Ian spread his fingers across Mickey’s shoulder blades in an achingly delightful movement and Mickey couldn’t suppress a full body shudder of longing.

“That good?” Ian asked.

Mickey closed his eyes and nodded, not trusting himself to speak, bowing his head. His whole body felt like melted ice cream, the warmth of Ian’s attention overtaking every other thought. He was fully hard, now, if Ian had looked, but Ian was focused on his wings, bending so close to Mickey’s wing that his breath ruffled the soft down. Mickey shivered.

Ian murmured something, shifting marginally closer, Mickey missed the details but he caught the flavor, bright and brittle, the taste of new joy.

“Does this feel good?” Ian dragged his fingers through Mickey’s feathers again, drawing out a full-body tremor. “Because it feels amazing over my fingers.”

“Fuckin incredible,” Mickey admitted, glancing down at his noticeable hard-on, visible even through his thick denim jeans. “Too good,” he added.

“What do you - oh,” Ian breathed. Mickey turned his head to the side, just enough to catch the sight of Ian’s eyes widening as he peered over Mickey’s shoulder and down. “Sensitive, you said.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Should I stop?” His whisper was barely a puff of air against the back of Mickey’s ear.

Mickey shook his head, no, wordless.

And then Ian’s lips touched his neck, and Mickey couldn’t stop the reflexive groan from escaping, and then he was twisting and Ian was leaning forward and they were kissing, smooth and soft and glorious, Mickey’s left wing trapped between them and brushing up against Ian’s chest. He forgot all about his worries and fears, forgot about everything but the feel of Ian’s fingers trailing down to rest lightly at either side of his waist and Ian’s lips moving confidently against his own.

Mickey could only gasp and nod. He tilted his face back up into Ian’s, seeking more of that hot mouth, tasting blood like pennies, Ian, more than happy to share. They kissed until Mickey’s neck was aching from keeping his head at such a strained angle, until his entire crotch was tingling with the need to be touched. To have Ian’s hand there, his mouth, his cock-

Suddenly, all he wanted was to be fucked, no kiss or touch sufficient to calm the raging firestorm under his skin. He pulled back from the kiss and surveyed the small store, not seeing what he wanted.

“Fuckin hell, Gallagher, this place got a bathroom?”

Ian shook his head slowly.

“Closet?” He knew his voice was rough and raspy and he didn’t give a shit. 

_A closet could work, he could work with a closet._

  
  


“There’s an office, in the back? We could-”

Mickey cut the words off, dipping back in to capture Gallagher’s lips with his own, torn between finding a private place to cram Ian’s dick up his ass and the taste of unadulterated joy slipping across his tongue and down his throat like thick, syrupy, cough medicine.

Somehow, the two managed to stumble into the office and lock the door, pulling off shoes, socks, pants, Ian’s jacket and henley shirt. Mickey’s jacket and shirt were still in tatters on the floor of the store. There was a moment when they stood in the crowded office, with its overflowing filing cabinet and messy desk, and just took each other in appreciatively.

Mickey’s first instinct was to lean over the desk and demand Gallagher get on him, but the giant sat down in the desk chair, thighs spread wide, and in an echo of their last time together, patted his lap, like Mickey was a recalcitrant puppy.

At first, the idea of fucking face to face made Mickey wrinkle his nose, _too fuckin intimate_. But the idea of using his wings to help propel him up at each stroke and those huge, hot hands pulling him back down on every thrust- he bit his lip. Ian waited patiently, aside from the raging hard-on throbbing between his legs, tip pressing wetly to his stomach. 

_Could he do this, without losing face?_

He wanted to, the thought made his ass clench in desire, but the consequences… If Tony were here, he could use his _Firstborne_ shit and tell Mickey if it was a good decision or a bad one, read the branching possibilities and the effects of each. But then Tony would be here watching him fuck Firecrotch, which was gross as fuck. Back to the matter at hand. 

Carefully, his face a mask of casual disinterest, he swung his leg over Gallagher’s lap. 

_This was fine._ _He’d done this before._

It wasn’t a new form of torture or debasement.

The redhead ran his hands over Mickey’s body, reaching one long arm back to slide against Mickey’s crack, finding it already damp, admitting one finger with ease.

The green eyes stared at Mickey in dazed pleasure. “You prepped yourself?”

“Eh, I heard someone say he was a good lay, and I thought he was more than human, so I took a chance,” Mickey teased, trying to regain the upper hand.

“Might be human but I am, and I quote, 'hung like a god.'”

_Had Mickey actually said that, like out loud?_

Fuckin embarrassing, but again, his concern was washed away by Gallagher's lips pressed hotly to his own. They kissed languidly for a few minutes, letting the urgency build again, Ian’s hands grazing over Mickey’s wings slowly, sending pulses of desire straight to his cock. 

Mickey was pretty sure he was gonna come as soon as Ian slid in, so he brought one hand down where it had been holding Gallagher’s neck in place as they kissed and began to jerk off the impressive cock between them, until he had enough of their precum to slide his own dick against Ian’s. Both men pulled back from the kiss at the sensation, looking down to watch themselves move and pulse in sync with their heartbeats. 

“Blue, _Mick_ , I- I gotta-”

Mickey nodded, understanding completely. He stretched out his wings, knocking a cup of pens off the desk, and flapped once, as Ian lifted him up, positioning his cock at the furl of Mickey’s hole. Slowly, as if gravity itself were fucking him, Mickey slid down Gallagher’s cock, until he was fully seated, Ian’s balls resting against the plump flesh of Mickey’s ass. There was a burn- Ian was larger than Mickey had really understood, but it soon subsided and he looked up, to see Gallagher with his eyes squeezed closed.

“Yo, Red, you ok?”

“I am very very ok. I am trying not to be so ok, otherwise this will all be over,” the man said through clenched teeth.

Mickey sat on his dick and waited, but he wasn’t so good at that kinda thing, so he tried a quick internal flex, just to see what would happen.

The man below him nearly bucked them off the chair, and only a few quick flaps of Mickey’s great wings kept them upright. 

The grin that stretched across Mickey’s face felt unfamiliar, and he wanted to stop, feel around the taut skin, but decided it wasn’t the time. Instead he gave a low moan, running his fingers through the short red hair that had so caught his eye. 

Gallagher sighed, and seemed to bring himself back, catching Mickey’s gaze. 

“You ready?”

“Been ready, Red. Not gettin’ any younger here.”

The taunt didn’t phase Gallagher, as he grasped Mickey by the thighs and started rolling his hips in slow, sensuous waves. 

Soon, they had established a rhythm, Mickey arching his back, wings stroking out, bringing down great gusts of air, pushing all the loose papers in the room to the floor, then Gallagher would thrust up, wrenching him back down. Mickey was seeing literal stars, vision fading in and out with the pleasure, as the sounds they both made dopplered a little. 

He could feel that he was clutching at Gallagher’s chest with his nails, again, leaving a new set of marks to accompany the fading ones from the last time they’d been together, but every thrust slid the fat cock over the bundle of nerves that made his gut sing. 

His own dick was leaking copiously between their bodies, and he knew _this_ was what he’d been missing, certain he would never be able to go back to shitty, quick alley fucks. Gallagher was ruining him for other men, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

What pushed him over the edge was when Gallagher slid his hands around to fondle the wing eruptions, the sensitive skin where his wings emerged from the skin of his back, like a whole new erogenous zone. 

Mickey came like a fountain between their bodies, surprising himself at the suddenness of it. Watching that display must have done it for Ian because he was a few moments behind, pouring himself into Mickey’s body in shaky, uneven thrusts, pressing their bodies together tightly. Gallagher kept those huge hands on Mickey’s back, pulling them close together disregarding the come and sweat squished between their torsos, maybe even reveling in it. His grunts and uneven words of pleasure made something else in Mickey smolder, an unfamiliar glow of pride and affection.

_Ah, fuck._

* * *

When Kash entered his office later that evening, looking for Advil for his raging headache, he stood in shock. The place had been _destroyed_. Aside from the furniture still standing, he had trouble believing it was the same room. 

Leaning down, he grabbed an invoice off the floor, only to find it was crusted with an unmistakable substance, drying like egg whites. He _knew_ that smell, had sniffed his own boxers on nights after messing around with Ian, knew what the kid smelled like when he came. Ian had fucked someone else in here. 

Kash thought back to the scraps of leather on the floor in the store. Who wore a leather jacket like that? Only one person he knew of, but he wasn’t- couldn’t be-

Who had Ian fucked in his office? The answer seemed obvious, but he couldn’t believe it. A _gay_ Milkovich? That seemed like an oxymoron, but the evidence was unmistakable. 

His heart hurt: he really hadn’t thought the breakup through. Ian was clearly just acting out like a child to get his attention. All he needed to do was bring Ian’s focus back to him, and they’d go back to the way they were. No more demands that he leave Linda, no more bitching about the cameras, just Ian Gallagher on his knees, sweetly sucking his cock, just like he had that very first time. 

All he had to do was make sure Ian’s attention wasn’t distracted again. Kash knew just how to do that. 

* * *

As Mickey walked in the door, all his siblings were sitting at the big kitchen table, eating pizza, drinking beer, laughing, and smoking. Mandy had a huge grin on her face, and he made a note to ask her later who put the hickey on her neck. 

As he entered, they all stopped talking and stared at him, eyes wide.

“What’s up, bitches?” The staring was weird, and Mickey didn’t like it.

“Dude, where’s your jacket?” Iggy finally asked.

“Had an accident. Found this instead.” The accident part was true, but he hadn’t _found_ the hideous Blackhawks coat, Gallagher had given it to him. It had been a gift from the ex, and Mickey had wanted to set it on fire out of principle. He easily could have, except then he would have had to walk home with his wings out. He was still gonna burn the thing as soon as possible, even if it did smell enticingly like Gallagher.

“That shit’s ugly as fuck,” Mandy opined, and he shot her the finger.

“You ain’t wrong, but it’s better than walking through Southside in my bare skin, wings to the world.” 

He threw the red and black monstrosity on the floor, and after a quick stop in his room for a shirt, joined them at the table for pizza. It felt warm in the house, not because of the temperature, but because of his bond with his siblings, the way they tried to look out for each other. Like the way one of the pizzas was half pineapple, cause Mandy and Iggy lived for that disgustingness, and one had no mushrooms, cause Tony hated em’. 

It was the little shit that made his family, well, a family. His life didn’t have a lot of good in it, but some days, man, a good fuck and a pizza and his siblings? Days like this, he didn’t hate his life.

Colin nudged him, “Hey, Mickey, listen, I saw something this morning-”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up, but Colin continued, “-about Dad. He’s gonna fuck you over, and soon.”

“What else is new?” Mickey wasn’t alarmed, Terry lived to double cross everyone in his life. Like that fuckin scorpion. 

“No, this was something I ain’t seen before in the æther, something different, I just don’t know-”

“-What else you seen in that shit, Col?”

His older brother flushed, and Mickey knew, Colin _knew_.

“I won’t say anything, Mickey, honest.”

“Shut the fuck up, Colin, I swear to-”

  
  


It was Terry’s turn to interrupt, as he lurched in, banging his fat hand on the table to get their attention. 

“Gather round, you fucking fairies, got an announcement. I been working on something big with the Russians, and it’s all comin together. They got an assassin on the inside, a way to get to the mucky-mucks that no one’ll see comin.”

A listless round of affirmations issues from his siblings, each one less sincere than the previous. Mickey didn’t bother adding anything, just set his face in a neutral pose and studied his father, waiting to see where the 

“Congrats, Mandy, yer movin out, and Mickey, yer gettin’ married.”


	5. Out in the forest/ I've seen monsters chasing dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuckin' Terry, man. A betrayal, and a familiar fight. Then more pain.

[ Have You Ever - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fUjwV4j-H0)

The siblings sat in shocked silence for a moment, absorbing Terry’s proclamation.

“I don’t wanna move out!” Mandy was the first to protest, small hands curled into fists on the wooden tabletop, her wings stretched out to make her look bigger and more threatening. There were nods of agreement from Jamie and Tony, but Colin only closed his eyes, wings tucked tightly to his back. He knew something. 

_ More foredoom shit. _

“Listen, missy, no one fuckin cares what you want. The Yevgeniva’s need a live-in with some skills, and I talked up yer fairy-bullshit-magic-skills, so yer it.” Terry made air quotes around the fairy-bullshit. 

“ _ Live-in _ ? You’re selling me off as a fucking maid?” Her tone was livid, and pulses of blue light were emanating from her hands.

Terry crashed his massive fist down on the table, and Mickey could hear the wood creak from the abuse. “Not my fault yer too much of a slut to marry off! The only one of yous that ain’t got a reputation as a disease-ridden ho’ is Mickey here, even if he is the runty one. Once yer hitched, the binding gets released.”

Mickey raised his hand warily, ready to cop to every disease from the syph to HIV if that meant he would get out of this mess, but Terry reached out a hand and smacked the back of his head so hard he was pretty sure he heard his brain hit the front of his skull.  Mickey kept his eyes down. He didn't make a move to defend himself or anything. He just  _ took  _ it, knowing it was the best of the bad choices at his disposal. Terry grabbed onto the back of Mickey’s neck, bringing his son closer. He leaned into Mickey, right next to his ear, hissing with his foul breath, “ _ Yevgeniva’s want grandkids. Better get your useless prick ready. _ ” 

Mickey put his hand down, and stared at his lap. Mandy was practically frothing at the mouth, shooting up to stand and slam her palms on the table. 

  
“No fucking way, Dad! You can’t  _ do  _ this!” She sounded bratty, but the cycling of the pulsing blue light in her hands had sped up dangerously, and her wings were crashing, up and down, feathers shifting color from red to black. She could wipe Terry’s memory with one arcane move of her hands, if she wanted to, but it would just bubble back, making him angrier and more vengeful than ever. “I’m a fuckin Milkovich too, and Milkovichs ain’t nobody’s bitch!”

The whole table stilled as the brothers held their collective breath, but Terry didn’t seem inclined to discuss or debate. Entirely heedless of the power in his daughter’s hands, he spoke slowly, enunciating clearly. “You’ll do whatever the fuck I say. Or else.” Instead of completing the threat, explaining the consequence, he simply turned away, yanking his jacket off the hook by the door and slammed it so hard the whole house shook.

There was a long moment of stunned silence around the table.

“Married, huh?” That was Iggy, stating the obvious as always.  _ Moron _ .

“No fuckin way we’ll let that happen,” Jamie vowed, his voice brittle and disembodied. 

“That motherfucker! I ain’t gonna be anybody’s maid. I’ll just leave- I got places to go, people to stay with.”

“Who? Who the fuck do any of us have to turn to right now that ain’t gonna sell us out as freaks?” Tony had a solid point: Terry had worked hard to isolate the family from any possible ally. The whole neighborhood, hell, all of Southside Chicago knew Milkovich’s were bad news. 

Iggy nudged Mickey sitting beside him. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, gettin married? Unbound powers- did you even know you had a binding on you? Think I got one on me too? Plus, all the pussy you want, right?”

Mickey resisted the urge to wallop Iggy,  _ barely _ , as he explained slowly, “No, Ig, it’d be awful. I’d just be a paid-for piece of ass, same as Mandy, only with a ring chaining me in place. And if the wife got knocked up? Forget it,  _ me _ , with a kid?”

“That the only reason you ain’t interested?” Jamie’s tone wasn’t subtle, and Mickey cut him a sharp glance.

“Fine, bitch. I met someone and -”

“Who is she? Do I know her? What’s her name? Does she live nearby?” All these rapid-fire questions came spilling out of Mandy, her eyes alight with interest, probably grateful to think of anything outside of her own future as a live-action Cinderella.   
  


_ Ah, fuck.  _

He looked over at Colin, hoping for support, but his older brother just shrugged.

“It ain’t like that. It’s- I ain’t-” He sighed, trying to organize his thoughts. “I saved this dude’s life is all. Nothin more than that.”

It  _ was  _ nothing more. 

Tony patted Mickey’s shoulder awkwardly. “Guess that’s what I was seeing, I’d wondered about the new thread in your weft. Weird that it was gold, usually that means-”

“-Doesn’t mean shit.” Mickey interrupted. Of course Red’s thread was gold, that rosy gold Mandy loved.

“Wait, so you’re a fag now?”

Mickey did reach out this time, flicking at Iggy’s ear, making him duck away quickly, but Mandy leaned in from his other side, flicking Iggy’s other ear in solidarity.

“Hey, oww, what the fuck, guys?”

“You can’t just call Mickey a fag, asshole!”

They both turned, looking expectantly at Mickey, like he was gonna see fit to answer, but he just crossed his arms across his chest, flexing and fluttering his wings aggressively. 

* * *

[ The Kids Aren’t Alright - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7iNbnineUCI)

In the back of a darkened bar a few short hours later, Terry sat in a rounded booth. No one else sat with him, but there were a few drinks arrayed around him. 

On the floor in front of the table, a man was curled in a ball, cradling a broken wrist, whimpering loudly, though no patrons were paying him any attention.

Terry picked up a clear, thick, cut crystal glass from in front of him, swirling the amber liquid contained within, before taking a slow, appreciative sip. The man on the floor had sought him out, carrying malicious rumors, obvious lies, expecting a reward for his service.

The reward was his life, which he got to keep, even if Terry thought all homos should die. This one would soon realize that service to a Milkovich was life-changing, in all the very worst ways. And when he’d used the man up, gotten all the juice out of him, then he’d kill the fag. Until then, he’d just make him suffer every day. 

No son of his was a shirt-lifter. And if he was, Milkovich’s didn’t fuckin bottom. If Terry found out anything like that, he’d put a bullet in the kid’s head, deal with the Russians or no deal. That’s why he had other sons, spare parts. Unless that pole-smoker tried to faggify the rest of ‘em. 

He had held out a small hope that the little fairy had more brains than the rest, that after his marriage had solidified Terry’s connection to the Russians, he could work more hand-in-hand with his son, train him up to take over someday. Now those watery dreams had all been flushed away, full of shit. 

He knew he’d find out the truth. The shiny  _ intsizzen  _ anthame on the bench seat beside him assured him, whispering in dulcet tones only he could hear that he’d get the truth out of the flying runt. 

Not yet. 

_ Soon _ .

* * *

[ Why Don’t You Get a Job - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LH-i8IvYIcg)

Mickey and Mandy were standing awkwardly in a beer hall. It was Mickey’s engagement party, and he wished that he was dead. 

The ill-fitting suit he wore had been thrown in his face, and even though it did a poor job of concealing his wings, merely making him look like he had a mild hunch-back, he wore it. Terry hadn’t bothered to even address Mandy’s attire, so she’d gone all out in a high-necked, lavender button down shirt, cream cardigan, and tweed pencil skirt. It was all very prudish for his generally unrestrained sister, but Mickey had bigger issues to worry about, namely, his prospective fiancee. 

  
  


Svetlana Yevgeniva had to be 5’11” in her stocking feet, and the bitch had 3 inch heels on. Her gray eyes were emotionless, constantly moving, watching and assessing everyone in the room. Mickey knew they made an absurd pair, truly ghastly. But the icy fear that had gripped and held him since the day before, when Terry had made his pronouncement, had a small crack in it, just the tiniest sliver of hope.

The woman beside him had as little interest in marrying Mickey as he did in her, which was to say, none at all. Even through his fake smirk he could taste her disdain for him, for her family, as well as her deep fear of her own parents. Every time the prodigal father and mother even glanced her way, Svet would release a new wave of terrified scent. 

Her lack of interest in him didn’t offer any real hope that he could get out of this unwed, but at least it seemed like maybe Svet wasn’t the one he should be fighting against. It was all the older generation, carousing and generally drinking themselves into a stupor. Terry’d been extra squirrelly for the past day, and Mickey was treading a fine line. His curiosity about the binding he was under warred with his instinctive distrust of anything his father said or did. 

Terry hadn’t even bothered to invite his other sons, and Mandy was openly eyeing every exit in the room after Svetlana’s mother had made Mandy stretch her lips and display her mouth, inspecting her  _ teeth _ . While the old timers gave a series of increasingly vulgar toasts in a variety of slavic languages, Terry swilled drink after drink, face becoming florid, throwing glare after glare at Mickey, which he took as warnings to behave, do the right things, basically not be himself.

Mickey sat awkwardly beside Svetlana, unwilling to risk his limited ability at small talk. Luckily for him, under Terry’s malevolent gaze, Svet took the initiative. 

“I have girlfriend.”

_ Was he supposed to say something? What did one say, in this situation? _

She wasn’t looking at him, was instead staring around the room at the sad, decaying decorations and shoddy banner hanging on a wall.

“K.” 

_ Why was she even talking to him like he gave a shit? _

“And boyfriend.” 

That got Mickey’s attention: he raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

_ Maybe he could…  _

Fuck,  _ no _ , he could not. 

He knew better. 

No ginger idiot could help this situation, only make it much,  _ much  _ worse. 

A waiter came past, and Mickey snagged a drink off the tray. Svet made as if to take it from his hands, but he bared his teeth, and she backed off, flipping her hair in distaste.

It was gonna be a long night.

The Yevgeniva matriarch tapped a glass with her spoon to get everyone’s attention. At the front of the room, Svetlana’s father was standing next to Terry. The man, who had clearly passed his height on to his daughter, gave a short speech in Russian. Mickey couldn’t understand the words per se, but he got the flavors, caramel-tinged tobacco, lots of dynastic intentions and vague promises about a treaty, as he passed a bundle wrapped in brown paper ceremoniously to Terry. He sat down, frowning deeply, forehead drawn down, as the patriarch seemed to be recapping the speech in English, for the benefit of the non-Russian speaking attendees. Mickey had a strong conviction that the two speeches bore little resemblance to each other. 

“Today we join two houses, with daughter and son, bound for life.”

_ Fucked for life, more like it. _

“Living, loving, family, having children: what else is there in life? Svetlana and Mikhailo will have many children, tall like their mother, sturdy and strong like their grandfather.”

There was conspicuously no mention of what Mickey was bringing to the union, aside from his cock and balls.

“Tonight we celebrate, so eat, drink, new friends! My beloved daughter, Svetlana the Savage, and her new fiance, upstairs you can go spend some time together, alone. Maybe in nine months we have another party to celebrate something different.”

There were hoots of laughter from the assembled crowd, and Mickey felt his face flush with shame.

Svetlana stood, and extended her hand back to him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“We go upstairs, we fuck. Daddy say so.”

He gave her hand a dismissive shake of his head, standing up next to her. Their height disparity was even more glaring standing up. The shit was never gonna end, if he did this, he’d be tied to Terry even more tightly, hiding who he was, adding more secrets to his list. 

He could feel Terry’s eyes boring into him as his father stalked over to the couple, pulling Mickey to him by the neck. 

“Listen, you fuckin fairy,” the dank breath hissed past his ear, voice pitched for Mickey alone to hear, “you go the fuck up there and do whatever shit she wants, throw her the best fuck she ever had, or I tell the world about yer faggot ass boyfriend. Then I do more than talk, I don’t just pummel his face in, or rip his dick off, I’ll fuckin kill him.”

Mickey might have been a fag, but he wasn’t a pussy. In that moment, hearing that his father  _ knew _ , two thoughts crystallized in his head, thrumming like plucked strings on a harp. 

First, the wedding would never,  _ could never _ , happen. He’d die, some essential part of his soul would wither away before he joined his life this tall, predatory woman who had the flat, dead eyes of a shark.

Second, he had to protect Gallagher’s life. It was that simple, had been from the day he looked up at the abandoned building and leapt to save the falling stranger. There was something there, something Mickey still refused to look at closely, but he knew it existed. 

_ Fuck. _

He swung his own hand up, clasping his father by the shoulder. To the casual observer, it may have looked like they were deep in a touching father-son moment, but there was no love between the two, only threats.

“Listen, old man, you wanna know the truth?” He started to raise his voice, but Terry interrupted.

“What a fuckin’ pussy you are. Come on, big man. You think yer a tough guy? Yer not. Yer a coward, and a faggot.”

The crowd went silent at that, waiting, confused looks being exchanged.

“Hey,” Mickey smacked the wall beside him with his open palm. “ ‘Scuse me! Can I get everyone’s attention, please?” He had it, all eyes glued to his face, drinks held in midair as if frozen. The faint music that had been playing in the background ended with an abrupt record-scratch. 

“I just want everybody here to know, I’m fuckin gay. A big ole ‘mo. I just thought everybody should know that, before you ask me to go fuck your daughter, or join your fucked up family.” 

He turned back to Terry. “You happy now?” The rage that saturated Terry’s face wasn’t red heat, but a draining away of his humanity, leaving the grey-faced monster of Mickey’s nightmares.

The music returned, lyrics in a language Mickey didn’t know. He looked around, as people began to drink and talk again. Svetlana let out a huff and walked away to speak to her parents.

“I’ll fuckin kill you!” Terry launched himself at Mickey, fists first. He got one good hit in, before Mickey broke through his own shock and started punching back, hard-knuckled blows that lay open Terry’s cheek and forehead. 

The high of the fight began to sing in Mickey’s bones, the thrill of causing pain, of his own strength as he broke a heavy plate over his father’s head.

Their fight spiraled, until they were outside on the pavement, and Mickey could hear sirens getting closer.

Someone must have called the cops, he realized. Maybe Mandy?. One of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut, his ribs, still bruised from where Gallagher had landed, now truly felt cracked, but he kept laying into Terry, trading shouted insults and barbs.

“You piece a shit!”

A wooden chair came down across Terry’s back, and he saw Mandy standing there. “Been wantin to do this forever,  _ Dad _ !” She spat on her father’s back where he lay groaning.

Terry rolled over and dragged Mickey down the ground on his back, slamming his shoulders down: Mickey could feel his wings retracting to their smallest but it still fuckin hurt.

“Get out of my fuckin house, you pole-smoking queer!” Terry launched a cruel blow at Mickey’s mouth, and he felt his lip split, tasted his own blood.

“Fuck you, don’t worry about it!” Mickey spat blood in his father’s face, delighted at the expression he’d provoked. “I been fuckin a guy since you been so busy makin plans, bitch! Guess what we’ve been doin, Daddy?” Mickey managed to shake his father off, rolling until he knelt beside Terry’s body, aiming repeated blows at his father’s kidneys. 

He kept up his verbal assault at the same time. “We’ve been fuckin! And I take it! He gives it to me good and hard and I fuckin love it!” Terry got in one last blow to Mickey’s back, aiming directly for the radial bone in his right wing and Mickey could feel a painful shudder run all the way down to his toes, before the cop dragged his father to his feet. Mickey lay on the dirty sidewalk, panting. 

In short order, Terry had been cuffed and stuffed into the bacon mobile. He had plenty of priors, and Mickey hoped it would be enough to keep him locked up for a good long while. 

Mickey had plenty of priors himself, actually, but the good old “See what you expect” charm had many applications. In this case, he was just the poor, beleaguered victim of yet another fag bashing by Terry Milkovich. He was let go with a kind word and a pat on the back from the  _ bunyak  _ officer.

He looked around Mandy, but she’d disappeared into the night. The Yevgeniva’s were long gone, so he dragged himself home. It felt like he was a little out of his body, as if the stars were whispering to him. Walking down the lonely, cold street, he could feel a thread, a light pulling he knew would lead him to Gallagher, if he followed it. 

_ Should he…? _

The comfort and warmth were appealing, but he didn’t know what Gallagher’s house was like, if he was out to his family, or how he would feel about having a bloody Mickey show up on his doorstep. That decided him. Best to go straight home, slap bandaids on shit, and try to get some sleep.

* * *

[ The End of the Line - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbwaTo3XhAs)

  
  


Terry was in jail, Mickey reminded himself for the thousandth time, later that night. He was safe in his own room. 

No matter how loudly every part of his brain was screaming to text the giant, call him up to hear his voice, taste Ian’s mouth just one more time, Mickey shut up the voices with cigarette after cigarette, staying many sheets to the wind, not even sleeping, just hunching at the foot of his bed, trying not to think about what he’d done, how he’d blown up his whole life.

Mandy had disappeared after the fight, hadn’t come home tonight, and he was worrying about her too.

He could still feel a chill, even as he wrapped his wings around himself for comfort. It was after midnight, and the house was quiet, his brothers all asleep in their respective rooms, aside from the whining of the wind outside. 

The front door swung in with a crash, and Mickey heard a heavy tread through the living room.    
  


_ It was fine, no reason to- _

His bedroom door slammed open, and Terry reached one long arm in, grabbing Mickey by the scruff and dragging him into the living room. In his free hand, he held a sleek knife that let off the scent of cancer, shone like dead moths around a lamp, and echoed faintly of political promises. 

_ He should scream _ , he knew he should scream, but he’d been trained since childhood that monsters don’t do the screaming, only victims. Never mind that his father had him in a headlock, and was using one hand to stretch out Mickey’s left wing, the feathers a petrified shade of granite.

Only able to get out a single gasping breath, Mickey began to struggle, trying to fight back, when his father shook the knife once, then twice in front of Mickey’s eyes. 

The  _ intsizzen  _ anthame caught Mickey in its bright glare, reflecting his fears into his mind. The room around him became shadowy, insubstantial, and then the onslaught began. Every night terror, every silvery shard of pain, great purple gouts of agony all surround him, attacking his mind, as Terry took the physical knife and laid the first slice across the skin where Mickey’s left wing met the flesh of his back.

Despite the depth of the mental well he was trapped in, the physical pain penetrated - Mickey  _ screamed _ . The blade wasn’t made for cutting bone, even hollow ones, and Terry had to wipe the gore on his pants after every fine slice. Mickey kept screaming, though whether at the anguish in his mind or his body was unclear.

He saw Mandy, in the shadows of his mind, cowering behind her wings in a corner as bats the size of dogs attacked her, heard her cries layered over the sounds coming out of his own mouth. 

_ Not real.  _

Cut after cut burned like a brand on his wing eruption; he knew he was feeling the skin of his back separate from the layers of muscle underneath.

Iggy lay on the floor, blood trickling from his mouth, eyes dusky and dim, wings at terrible, broken angles. Then the image shifted, and he could see Colin and Tony coming at Terry with whatever weapons they had on hand. 

_ Was this real, or in his mind? _

Jamie fell with a gasp, the anthame sticking out of one ear.

_ That couldn’t be…  _

Now, he was back at the base of the abandoned building, hearing the terminal  _ thud,  _ seeing jagged bones poking out of pale skin, marred by the red of blood. 

  
  


Again.

_ Thud. _

  
  
  


Again.

_ Thud _ .

  
  
  
  


Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Old High German- intsizzen: “to come out of one's seat, to lose one's composure, to fear, to be afraid”


	6. And that's where I saw me/ I was chasing too... you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is caught in a trap. Ian is involved in the fallout.

[ Gasoline - Halsey ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE)

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t, dwell on that. Below, he saw Mickey at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of platinum wrapped tightly to his back.  _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes. _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible. _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t, dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. This had already happened, hadn’t it? _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of gunmetal wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes. I’ve died here before, he realized, as he hit the ground. _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible. _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. He knew this was a loop, now, but he couldn’t make his limbs respond. _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of charcoal wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes. Angling his body, he wished to hit the ground sooner, to see Mickey sooner. _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible. He tried to open his mouth, to say something, but he didn’t have the words, only broken teeth and a gush of blood. _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. Did Mickey know they were looping? _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of river stone wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes, but he kept them open wide. _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible. Instead of trying to talk, he met Mickey’s glance, saw the shock and recognition there. Mickey knew- _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. He waited impatiently for the fall. _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of glaucus wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes. He grinned brutally into the wind. _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible.  _

_ Mickey spoke to him. “Gallagher, I don’t know what the fuck to do? How do I make it stop?” _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below.  _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of rose quartz wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes.  _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible.  _

_ He was finally able to get some words out, “Mick, it’s not real. None of this-” _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. Had Mickey understood his message, that this wasn’t really happening? Or was it? _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of cinereous wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes.  _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible.  _

_ “Gallagher, I can’t make it stop, can’t make you stop dying. I think- I think I may be dying too, out there.” _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He saw Mickey again, at the foot of the building’s crumbling wall many stories below. Mickey couldn’t be dying, not when Ian had just fucking found him- it was too unfair of the universe, one cruelty too far. _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at Mickey, who was huddled, practically kneeling, wings the shade of rocket metal wrapped tightly to his back. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes.  _

_ Then he lay on the ground beside Mickey. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant. Mickey looked him over, pale face drawn in the light of the static moon, and Ian knew he must be dead, the expression on Mickey’s face haunted and terrible.  _

_ It was his turn again, somehow he got the words out between his cracked teeth and a gush of blood. “You have to fight, Mick. You have wings, you’re Fae, that has to mean something, you  _ **_already_ ** _ saved me once, you can do this-” _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that. He screamed noiselessly into the night in frustration. But Mickey wasn’t at the bottom of the building anymore, was gone. _

_ In slow motion, not feeling like he had any control over his body, Ian threw one leg over the deteriorating balustrade, then the other, sitting on the edge, staring down at the space where Mickey had been. _

_ He was falling, falling down, hadn’t even realized he’d slipped or been pushed off, or taken the last push for himself until he felt the bite of the air on his face, pulling tears to his eyes.  _

_ Then he lay on the ground. Everything hurt, but not in an urgent way, just a whole body pulse of pain that seemed very distant.  _

* * *

_ Ian was standing at the top of the abandoned building. Looking up, the sky was staticy emptiness, no stars or clouds, but he didn’t, couldn’t dwell on that.  _

* * *

Slowly, painfully, Mickey opened his one good eye, the other too swollen from the beating earlier in the night. His spine felt like it had been dipped in magma. There were shadows grouped around him, and a body-shaped lump on the other side of the room. His brothers, and Terry, he guessed foggily.

__

“Mickey, you ok, man?”

__

“We got you, it’s ok, Mickey, we got you.”

__

“What do we do about-”

__

“-Leave him there, the bastard can bleed out for all I give a shit.”

__

“No, I mean Mickey’s-”

__

“Don’t touch it!”

__

“His shit’s all fucked up, my wings hurt just lookin’ at ‘em.”

He tried to blink, to see who was saying what, to get a bead on where Terry was, but when he made an effort to sit up, the pain in his wing and back sang and he moaned, unable to hold the glowing ember of hurt inside him any longer. 

_ How had his brothers taken Terry down? _

“Gotta fuckin get Mickey somewhere safe, though. He can heal himself, if he’s safe.”

__

“You sure about that? This is worse than just some busted rib.”

__

“No, I ain’t sure, numbnuts, you got a better plan?”

__

“Wish Mom gave birth to a can opener, because at least that would be useful.”

__

“He can’t stay here, we gotta get him somewhere else.”

__

“Didja try Mandy again? Maybe she knows a place?”

__

“She’s safer wherever the fuck she is, we’re not bothering her.”

Struggling up through the pain, his dumbass mouth worked independently from his brain, “Boyfriend.” 

_ The fuck had just come out of his mouth? _

He didn’t have a  _ boyfriend _ , he didn’t even have a fuck buddy, just a- a fuckin Gallagher, whatever that meant. Gallagher, who had been in the dream with him, falling, talkin’ to him, dying over and over; a wave of nausea rolled through Mickey’s body, stomach clenching and roiling.

“Hey, Mouse Man,” Iggy, it had to be Iggy, with the shitty nicknames, “back with the program! Yeah, maybe she’s at her boyfriend’s place.” 

Colin, he could tell that was Colin speaking now, “Uh, guys, he doesn’t mean  _ Mandy’s  _ boyfriend.”

There was a moment of silence, and Mickey wondered if he’d passed out again, but for the gasoline scent of confusion his brothers were passing around like a goddamn hot potato.

He opened his mouth, trying to get the vital question out. “Terry- how?” His voice gave out, and he coughed, feeling an instability deep in his chest, and the painful pulling of tendons across his back and wings with every exhalation.

“Dude, we heard you scream, and then all we saw was light, and Dad over there. What’d you do to him, Mickey?”

“Yeah, what kinda fuckin’ ward you got that can take down an asshole like that?”

_ Me? But I didn’t- _

Ian had told him to do  _ something _ , in the deep well of the dream. The memory was very clear, not fading away like most night terrors. 

_ What had he done? _

He grunted, wordlessly, unable to explain, instead gathering his energy to send a tiny surge of power to his index finger, lighting up the arrow there, hoping Colin or Tony would get the clue. It didn’t make any sense to go to Gallagher’s but he felt that pull again, the anxiety and discomfort that his limbic system was telling him would be soothed by being near the great gay gingerbread man. Then he passed out again, thankful for the empty darkness closing over his vision.

* * *

[ Feelings - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XnhoIf8dDVE)

Joey had Mickey’s limp body in a fireman’s carry over his back, and the assorted brothers were standing on a porch. They’d rung the bell, and then knocked heavily on the door, but it was late, and everyone within seemed to be asleep.

Iggy backed down the steps, and stood in the middle of the street, studying the house. On the second story, there were three windows, the middle of which had a dim light shining through it. Thinking quickly, ( _ for Iggy) _ , he bent down and picked up a stray pebble, launching it at the window with the light.

The window slid open and a shaggy-maned man stuck his head out.

“Whadya assholes want? S’late!”

“Listen, fuckhead, ya got any fags in there?”

“Iggy, man, shut up!” Tony strode to the middle of the street, cuffing Iggy on this side of his head. “Listen, guy, we got a problem down here, and someone in there’s gotta help.”

“I dunno what you heard, but this ain’t a fuckin’ shelter. Take your problems-

A familiar dark head popped up beside the shaggy man, interrupting him.

“-What are you fuckheads doing here? I’m not comin’ home, not if Dad’s there!”

“Mandy? Nah, this ain’t about all that- just come down and open the door, it’s- it’s about Mickey.”

She disappeared from the window, and urgent whispers were audible, even down in the silent street.

Shortly, the front door of the dilapidated house swung open, and Joey carried Mickey inside the house. An impromptu meet’n’greet was happening in the kitchen, where Joey had laid Mickey, face down to spare his wing and back, covered with the first coat they’d found in the house, on the counter. He stirred, briefly, then faded away into unconsciousness again.

The shaggy man sat on the back steps, watching closely. A small Black child wandered down, and sat in his lap.

“What ‘appened to ‘im?” the child asked the room in general.

The Milkovich’s passed another of those millstone looks between them, before Mandy spoke, crouching down in front of the two on the stairs as she spoke. “It’s ok, honey, my dad’s a major prick, and he hurt Mickey. But now we’re gonna help him, ok? Lip, I need you guys to, uh, go get some first aid shit, aright?”

Lip nodded once, and carried the child upstairs with him. Mandy turned to her brothers.

“What the fuck, guys? Obviously it was Dad, but like, what the fuck happened? He was in a cop car, last I checked?”

Tony took the reins. “The Russians must have sprung him, cause he came for Mickey with a knife. Did some shit to his mind, started sawing his wings off.”

All the Milkovich's shuddered, the way men shudder in sympathy when another man gets kicked in the nuts. 

“And you assholes just let him cut on Mickey like that?” Mandy was incensed, and the light was pulsing in her palms again.

“Yo, Mandy, chill out, ok?” Colin patted the air with his hands. “We were sleepin’ and then we heard him scream, and we all came fallin out, and there was this light, fuckin bright as shit, and then Dad was lyin in the corner, and Mickey was bleedin.”

“So you decided to bring him to me, here, “ Mandy scoffed.

“Actually, no. He said somethin’ about a boyfriend, and lit up the Find Me arrow. It led us here, didn’t even know you were shacked up.”

A herd of footfalls came down the stairs, and the Milkovich siblings turned to see a small crowd of people staring at them in surprise. “Who the hell are you people and why are you in my kitchen at 3 am?” Fiona had her hands on her hips and was glaring roundly. One of the people on the stairs pushed through the throng. “Oh fuck, Mickey!”

Ian ignored his sister, leaning over Mickey’s unmoving form, running a gentle hand over his back, pulling away when the hiss of pain fell from Mickey’s unconscious mouth. The redhead turned, glaring at the strangers. 

“What happened to him?”

There was chaos in the kitchen for a few minutes as everyone spoke at once.

“Wait, Ian, you know this guy?” That was Lip, holding Liam in his arms.

“Wait a sec,” Mandy gasped, “ _ This _ is the guy you were talking about? The one you met at work?”

Iggy elbowed Joey, asking, “This is the boyfriend? Kind weird-lookin’, ain’t he?” 

“STOP!” Ian’s fierce voice rose above the din. “Gallagher’s, go back to bed. I got this.”

“Ian, sweetface, is this- is this about drugs or somethin’? Are your meds not working? Cause you can tell me-”

“No, Fi, I’m fine. This is- I think it’s hard to explain, and better for you not to know, ok? Just- trust me?”

Lip had already made his decision and was herding the three children up the stairs. Fiona watched, unsure. The fact that she wasn’t still protesting, loudly, was wildly out of character. When he looked back, Mandy was chewing and swallowing something that looked like… paper? Fiona and the rest of his siblings had turned, leaving Ian alone with the Milkovich’s in the kitchen. 

_ Spooky shit. _

Ian turned, placing his hand lightly on Mickey’s cheek, stroking the pale skin where bruises had begun to cloud like thunderheads. His voice was soft, his tone contemplative. “How did he do it?”

“Do what,” came the faux innocent reply from Iggy.

Colin took the turn to smack him. “We, uh, we don’t actually know. Just found ‘im like this, and Terry was down.”

“Not dead, though?”

“Yeah, not  _ yet _ ,” vowed Jamie.

“I told him he had to fight, that he’d saved me, now all he had to do was save himself.” 

_ You have to  _ **_fight_ ** _ , Mick. You have wings, you’re Fae, that has to mean something. _

Ian reached out, peeling back the red and black jacket that had, until recently, been his own. At the sight of Mickey’s broken and bleeding wing, he stifled a moan, but the tears began to roll down his face.

“Are they fixable? Will he heal? Or is this- is this permanent?” Ian looked from face to face in the kitchen, seeing worry, seeing fear, seeing pain, but not seeing fucking  _ answers _ .

Mandy spoke up, coming to stand beside him. “He can probably heal himself, if he feels safe enough. But we need to make sure Dad knows this is done, over, finished. That he ain’t gonna try again.”

“He ain’t gonna stop until Mickey’s dead,” Colin said, mournfully. “I saw it already, all the ways he comes for him.”

“Ok, then fuckin’ see the ways we escape, the ways we keep him outta the way,” Iggy flared. 

“There’s only one.” Colin didn’t explain, but Ian felt like the man definitely knew the one path to success, the narrow walkway they would need to tread.

“We have to kill him, don’t we?”

“It ain’t that easy, it ain’t like killin a normal fuckin guy.” Mandy had left Ian’s side to sit at the empty kitchen table, head in her hands. “He’s got all these, like, wards and shit. And he got some kind of binding on us.”

“Actually,” Tony cleared his throat, and spoke, “I might have an idea about that. But first we need Mickey healing. None of my plan works without him. Jamie, you got anything for this?”

“Yeah, I-” Jamie rummaged in his greatcoat’s deep pockets and came out with a silver chain. “This should help. But he’ll need a day and a night, at least.”

“Ok, we’ll put him upstairs in my room.” Ian said this as if he expected the others to follow his command, but the blue eyes around the room just raised multi-colored eyebrows in disbelief.

“No offence, man, but even if you are his fuckin’ boyfriend, you ain’t family. You ain’t seen what we seen, you don’t know about us.”

Ian marched up to Tony, planting a finger in his chest. “Really? Cause he asked you to bring him here, right? I was with him, I  **_fell_ ** . I fell over and over and over, with him. So how about you try listening to me, you bug-winged pussy!”

Mandy gasped, but Tony’s face split in a grin. “Yeah, I get why he likes you, kid. Ok, Jamie, let’s get him upstairs, Mandy and Ig stay here, keep watch. Colin and I’ll check the house. Meet back here in 24, we’ll  _ foredoom  _ the shit out of this thing, see what I can find in the tapestry.”

* * *

[ Winnetka Bowling League - Kangaroo (acoustic) ](https://smarturl.it/kangarooacousticx?fbclid=IwAR1TpU4kCrmyg40oMdCSAIhDU1Xv5kvd05xUBUqgIFxuSNVRhzJBiAMRGio)

Upstairs soon after, the silver chain lay around Mickey’s neck, and his broken wing cocked crookedly on Ian’s small bed, as the pale man laid atop the old plaid blanket. Ian crouched by the bed, watching, worried. Lip had taken Liam and Carl out, promised to give them space. Mandy had helped him get the coat off Mickey’s shoulders, then passed him some ripped towels and rubbing alcohol to wipe away the dried blood, before leaving, but Ian couldn’t bring himself to start the clean up yet

He still couldn’t get past the events of the night, of the horribly realistic dream, feeling like he was dying again and again, seeing Mickey in his dream, then waking with a start to hear voices in the kitchen. 

Coming downstairs and seeing Mickey unconscious, the realization that some part of the dream had been real- it felt like a psychotic break with reality, except his siblings were there, acting like everything was real. So he’d just tried to go with it, act rationally. That’s when he knew it was real, when he was able to think logically and not over react. That was bad, that he’d wanted it all to be a delusion, because it was better than the pain of seeing Mickey that way.

Mickey stirred, one hand reaching to brush his hair off his face, and the movement pulled at the broken skin of his back. A whimper slid from his lips, and even in that moment, Ian wanted to kiss him. Maybe more in that moment than the other times they’d been together. 

Mickey had come to him, again. 

When he was in pain, Mickey had wanted to be with him. It was overwhelming, the level of emotion Ian already held for this man, this  _ being _ . He wasn’t even going to address the boyfriend issue until Mickey’s father was dealt with, but address it they would. He kept getting small pieces of Mickey’s life, almost like it was against Mickey’s better judgement. His name, kisses, his wings, fucking, and now this.

Ian delicately moved the offending hair off Mickey’s forehead. As his fingertips glanced over the pale skin, the electricity that always defined their interactions flamed up, and Ian had to remind his dick that now was not the time to be lusting after his- his  _ boyfriend _ ?

Mickey’s eyes were open, and staring at him.  _ When had that happened? _ The swelling around his left eye had gone down, the chain already doing its work. His eyes were clear, but the skin between his eyes was pinched and drawn with pain. 

“Hey, Mick…” Ian’s voice trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Gallagher.” That was it, just one word, his voice gravelly from the noises he must have made- Ian cut off the thought, dismissing it for the future. He couldn’t think about that right now. 

“Is there- do you need anything?” Stupid fucking question, Mickey probably needed a hospital. A doctor, or anything, really, other than a bipolar stripper.

“Get-” Mickey coughed once, wincing, “-get up here. Not kickin’ you out of your own bed.”

Carefully, Ian began to perch on the very edge, one asscheek hovering out in space, but Mickey huffed, and threw an arm over his legs, dragging Ian fully onto the bed, back against the wall, Mickey’s up body laid across his thighs. Ian wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he began to slowly comb through Mickey’s sweat-matted hair. 

Mickey sighed, closing his eyes, so Ian figured he’d done something right. He froze, for a moment, as a wound across Mickey’s back slowly began to come together while he watched. One blue eye popped open, with a glare, and Ian grinned, resuming his petting. Mickey’s eyelid drooped, and in a short time, light snores were emanating from his nose. Ian watched raptly through the hours as he healed: it was like watching a nature documentary where a plant grew in fast motion. First the underlying strata came together, muscles knitting, blood seeping in, rather than out. Then the subcutaneous layers of his skin would reform, and finally the pale skin would mesh across the former horrifying wound, the bruises shrinking and fading before Ian’s eyes. 

By the time the sun rose in the morning, Mickey’s back was mostly healed, only silvery scars remaining of the horrendous cuts, and both men were asleep, Mickey draped over Ian’s lap, Ian’s large, freckled hand cupping Mickey’s head protectively. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the beginning bit, where they're looping? I love it so much. Hope it works for you all as well.  
> Ian and Mickey are always tie by the thread of fate, and this story is no different.   
> Tony can see the tapestry of everyone's fates, so he may be the only one who knows the extent.  
> V. annoyed at myself for forgetting Joey existed, cause I could have maybe made Mickey a 7th son, which would have been cool.   
> Mandy definitely memory charmed the Gallagher's to leave the kitchen.


	7. I wanna be by your side when we light up the sky for the world to see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan goes off, with hitches.

[ Americana - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZmVE6NaWVo)

After waiting the requisite 24 hours, the Milkovich’s silently surrounded the battered house on South Wallace. They knew, could  _ feel _ , Mickey was up and alert. This was new. They’d always had their ways of connecting as siblings, but Mickey shone like radium in the darkness of the magical landscape that was Southside Chicago. He’d never done that before, radiating danger and power that could be felt blocks away. 

One knock at the tan door and they were admitted into the well-lit living room, each finding a spot to perch. It was the witching hour. Mickey and Ian had claimed the stairs: Ian sitting on the top step of the landing, Mickey standing beside him wearing a large khaki and grey coat. Mandy was curled sideways on the recliner, having shielded the rest of the Gallagher’s in a deep sleep for the night.

The discussion that followed, and the plan that resulted were risky, new. Mickey almost walked away, unwilling to commit to such an unlikely scheme, but he stayed. They all stayed, and talked until the dawn reached thin fingers through the curtains to find them.

“So that’s it? We’re decided? Clifford, you on board?” Mickey looked over at Ian, wanting to see if his face reflected understanding of the enormity of what was being asked of him.

“Can I- can I think about it?” Ian’s voice sounded steady, so Mickey nodded.

“Of course, yeah.”

“Yeah, I thought about it. Fuck you for thinking I wouldn’t do it.” He reached out one of those long arms and smacked Mickey on the knee with the back of his hand.

The tension that had overwritten the room lessened slightly, but was still palpable, making the air feel charged with ozone.

“But what about the anthem- antheem- ah, fuck, the fancy-ass knife thing?” Iggy asked.

Mickey growled, low in his throat. “Iggy, we  _ just  _ went over that part. Were you even listening?”

“I just don’t understand how if Dad’s not even  _ there  _ anymore,” Iggy whined. 

“C’mere.” Mickey motioned impatiently for Iggy to come stand next to him. 

Once they were standing side by side, Iggy stood a full head above Mickey.

“Down here, decrease your height.”

Iggy complied, he was a compliant kinda guy, if slow on the uptake.

Mickey smacked him on the back of the head. “Just follow the plan, even if it don’t make sense to you!”

Ian tugged at Mickey’s waist until he came back to sit on the steps. The other brothers and sister pointedly averted their eyes, as Ian ran his hand over Mickey’s shoulder, and down into the base of one wing encouragingly. Mickey accepted the comfort without thinking it could be the last time he would feel those hot hands on his skin.

\----

In the ramshackle house on South Trumbull, the siblings sat in a loose circle, around a chalk diagram on the floor of the living room. The couch, coffee table, and other furniture had been badly broken in Mickey’s fight against his father, and now sat pushed to the edges of the room, forgotten. Early morning light shone in, though it brought no warmth.

Brown stains on the floor had horrified Ian when he entered the space, like he could somehow feel the pain Mickey had felt to shed that blood. Now he sat, behind and beside Mickey. Ian couldn’t be part of the casting circle, but he still had a critical role to play.

“Once the spell sets, Mandy will wipe us, and you won’t be able to see any of us, Ian. Terry won’t be able to tell we’re here either. He’ll only see you, think you’re alone.” Tony explained, yet again, like he thought Ian had forgotten.

“But we ain’t goin anywhere. I’ll be right here the whole time.” Mickey anxiously added.

“I know,” Ian said, weirdly calm. “I’ll be able to feel you.”

The siblings shared a glance, and shrugged it off. It was the least weird part of the whole thing.

“I think I’m ready,” Jamie said quietly. “Once he’s here, we have to be quick, or he’ll be able to get loose.”

“Just fuckin’ do it already!” Mickey’s patience, always in short supply, was worn thin by the stress.

Jamie cast him a withering glance and touched one finger to the chalk figure on the bare floor. There was a  **_WHOOSH_ ** and the entire outline crackled with lightning racing around and along the track.

Mickey reached back, grabbing Ian’s hand, then pushed him into the center of the diagram.

Colin gave Mandy a nod, and she chewed up a slip of paper. Rather than all at once, the Milkovich’s seemed to dissolve into the air, like reverse mirages, complete with wavering air in their wakes.

Ian sat cross-legged and serene, eyes shut, in the midst of the contained lightning barrier. 

The air pressure in the room suddenly increased, and with a pop, Terry appeared in the circle, looking around wildly and brandishing the  _ intsizzen  _ anthame. Seeing no one but an object of his particular ire and wrath, scenting no trap, he advanced on the seated man. 

When he was just a few feet away, he growled out something Mickey couldn’t make out, some profanity or curse, probably. It wouldn’t work, not in the lightning circle. Ian heard it, though, his brilliant green eyes popping open, reflecting the light. Mickey would have sworn those eyes swung to where Mickey stood, invisible and supposedly undetectable by all measures human and Fae. Couldn't be though, right?

Terry waved the  _ intsizzen  _ anthame in front of Ian’s face and the red-head slumped, defenceless. The next part of the plan better fuckin work.

\---

[ The Dreaming Tree - DMB ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A26Fz51IlE4)

  
  


_ It was Thanksgiving. He could smell the food cooking, hear the TV in the living room, his siblings fighting. Fiona wrapping her arms around him, telling him to go wash up. Now the sound of rattling pills bottles, little white tablets washed down with flat beer. Sitting at the table beside Monica, seeing her dull hair and lifeless eyes. _

_ Feeling the sudden emptiness at his right side. A bottle dropped in the kitchen, sudden and incongruous. Following his family and friends, on the cusp between the adults and the kids, tasting bile in his mouth as the biscuits and potatoes he swallowed threaten to make a return appearance. Rifling through the kitchen drawers for towels, dish rags, anything to staunch that terrible flood of red. Hyperventilating, covering his mouth with hands, panting, the tears just a moment away.  _

_ - _

_ Thanksgiving. Food cooking, TV in the living room, his siblings fighting. “Go wash up!” The sound of rattling pills bottles, little white tablets washed down with flat beer. Sitting beside Monica, seeing his own reflection in her eyes. _

_ This had all happened before. Knowing it didn’t stop what came next. _

_ The sudden emptiness at his right side. A bottle dropped in the kitchen, sudden and incongruous. Bile in his mouth as the biscuits and potatoes he swallowed threaten to make a return appearance. Rifling through the kitchen drawers for towels, dish rags, anything to staunch that terrible flood of red. Hyperventilating, covering his mouth with hands, panting, the tears just a moment away.  _

_ - _

_ It was Thanksgiving. He could smell the turkey that Jimmy/Steve brought roasting, hear a TV program babbling, his siblings fighting. “Go wash up, and cover up that hickey!” Touching the bruised skin, pressing on it.  _

_ Mickey. That wasn’t right, he didn’t know Mickey yet. He was in a loop.  _

_ The sound of rattling pills bottles, little white tablets washed down with flat beer. Monica her eyes and his meeting, seeing himself. _

_ The emptiness at his side. Bile in his mouth as the biscuits and potatoes he swallowed threaten to make a return appearance. Trying to stop that terrible flood of red. Hyperventilating, covering his mouth with hands, panting, the tears just a moment away.  _

_ If there was one thing Ian Gallagher had experience with, it was hallucinations. Mental illness as a superpower, bitch. He turned the scene, willing himself to see something different. _

_ - _

_ Thanksgiving. Food cooking, TV in the living room, his siblings fighting. “Go wash up!” The sound of rattling pills bottles, little white tablets washed down with flat beer. Sitting beside Monica, seeing his own reflection in her eyes. _

_ The sudden emptiness at his right side. A bottle dropped in the kitchen, sudden and incongruous. Bile in his mouth as the biscuits and potatoes he swallowed threaten to make a return appearance. Rifling through the kitchen drawers for towels, dish rags, anything to staunch that terrible flood of red. Instead of hyperventilating in the kitchen he is  _

_ breathing hard, running in the bitterly cold air, bare handed and rosy cheeked. The running felt good, like his legs were longer than they’d been the day before. Skidding around the turn, scrambling up the steps, rapping urgently at the solid, wooden door.  _

_ “What the fuck?” _

_ Mickey. The face he knows, but different hair, somehow. Was this what Mickey had looked like, back then? _

_ “I need your help.” _

_ “Gallagher? Wait, I thought you were-” Mickey turned, looking back into the house, where nothing but a vast well of darkness lay.  _

_ - _

_ In a car, cruising down the highway as the sun rises, listening to Lip, Carl, and Debbie talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. It’s warm, all the windows are open and there is sweat, sticking his shirt to his back.  _

_ Hugging Fiona as she runs up to him, feeling like he was never here at all, not even a person, just a thing, a body walking around with no one in the driver’s seat. Scratching his signature on the yellow paper with a pen that was dying. Couldn’t even get a decent pen around here?  _

  
  


_ Stroking Debbie’s cheek softly, as a goodbye. Walking alone to the chicken wire door, his siblings clumped together in sorrow. Feeling so empty, so low. _

_ - _

_ In a car, cruising down the highway as the sun rises, listening to Lip, Carl, and Debbie talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. It’s warm, all the windows are open and there is sweat, sticking his shirt to his back. He wishes Mickey had been here to hold him, drowsy as he feels. _

_ Hugging Fiona as she runs up to him, feeling like he was never here at all, not even a person, just a thing, a body walking around with no one in the driver’s seat. Scratching his signature on the yellow paper with a pen that was dying.  _

_ Stroking Debbie’s cheek softly, as a goodbye. Walking alone to the chicken wire door, his siblings clumped together in sorrow. Feeling so empty, so low. Then warmth, pressure, the sound of a sob caught in a throat.  _

_ - _

_ In a car, cruising down the highway as the sun rises, listening to Lip, Carl, and Debbie talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. It’s warm, all the windows are open and there is sweat, sticking his shirt to his back. Mickey is beside him, letting Ian rest his weary head on a sturdy shoulder.  _

_ Hugging Fiona as she runs up to him, feeling like he was never here at all, not even a person, just a thing, a body walking around with no one in the driver’s seat. Scratching his signature on the yellow paper with a pen that was dying.  _

_ He can feel blue eyes boring into his back, blue eyes that weren’t there.  _

_ Stroking Debbie’s cheek softly, as a goodbye. Walking alone to the chicken wire door, his siblings clumped together in sorrow. Feeling so empty, so low. A hand, on his shoulder, pulling him, turning him, until he is in Mickey’s arms. He buries his face in Mickey’s neck, inhaling the familiar smells. _

_ “Gallagher, fuck, Ian, it’s not real, ok? I don’t know why, but you keep pullin’ me in, I need you to keep fightin’- please.” Mickey’s voice breaks on the ‘please.’ Ian pulls away, gives a nod. _

_ S’ not real. He’s still in the trap, still the bait.  _

_ Mickey is so warm, then _

_ - _

_ all he feels is cold. Barely dressed in shorts and tank top. “Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.” The music is so loud it hurts his ears, and whatever pills he took are messing with his mind, he’s so confused. He’d been dancing for a guy, but then he’d disappeared. He can’t keep his body still, wants to move, and he’s hard, but he’s never felt less like fucking. He feels like a puppet, or a doll that other men play with.  _

_ He stumbles outside, exhausted, led by an older man panting in his ear.  _

_ “Aren’t you cold?” Not anymore, the last pill lit a fire in his chest, burning away all his feelings, his pain, even his name. A hand cups his dick, caressing: he wants to smack it away, but doesn’t, can’t. A foul-smelling greasy tongue licks up his cheek, and Ian considers whether it would be a deal-breaker if he vomits on the man’s expensive looking italian loafers. _

_ Somehow, the man holding him up vanishes, and Ian feels himself fold like a chair, collapsing on his side into a snowpile. It’s so cold, it feels so good on his hot skin, and he’d like to stay here forever. _

_ - _

_ All he feels is cold. Barely dressed. “Twenty-five bucks gets you a dance.” The music is too loud, and he’s so confused. Grinding on a lap that feels so familiar, he looks up and catches- Blue.  _

_ He knows this face, these eyes, but before he can figure it out, he’s gone, on to the next man, the next lap, the next body. He feels like a puppet, or a doll that other men play with.  _

_ Stumbling outside, exhausted, led by an older man panting in his ear.  _

_ “Aren’t you cold?” Not anymore. A hand cups his dick, caressing: he wants to smack it away. A foul-smelling greasy tongue licks up his cheek. _

_ Pale hands and tattooed fingers grip the man, pulling him away. Ian feels himself fold like a chair, collapsing on his side into a snowpile. It’s so cold, it feels so good on his hot skin, and he’d like to stay here forever. _

_ - _

_ He didn’t know how he kept getting sucked into Gallagher’s mind, but it made sense, sort of. Gallagher had been pulled from his own safe dreams into Mickey’s memories, but now Gallagher was in too deep. It was different, drowning in your own memories, compared to someone else’s. _

_ The eyes said it all, lined with black, pupils blown so wide that the green was gone. Mickey would have to save him, and hope his siblings could finish the binding on Terry without him.  _

_ - _

_ In the club, the same one where he’d tracked Gallagher down (sort of) Mickey tried to talk to him, as the lanky man ground against him, but he thought maybe he was too far gone.  _

_ “Yo, Gallagher, man, c’mon. You gotta remember, this shit,” he gestured at the club around them, “it ain’t real. We had a whole plan, but you gotta make it to the end-” His voice trailed off. There was no point; he’d have to wait until Ian was clearer, a little later. _

_ So he waited, following Ian outside, shoving the predator away with some vague threats. Wasn’t real, so it didn’t matter if he vowed he’d ‘send three full-body burns worth of pain to you, right on your wrinkled-ass dick.’ _

_ But when he looked back, Ian had fallen into a snowbank. Mickey sighed, lifting the limp body up. He knew he couldn’t leave the giant here alone. There was only one place he could think of, the place where it had all begun. _

_ - _

[ Easy Love - Tom West  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTTQdmharno)

_ They sat side by side atop the abandoned building on East 47th. Mickey nudged Ian with his shoulder, and Ian pushed back, a smile, pleased look on his face. _

_ “So the psych unit, eh?” _

_ “You saw that?” Ian raised his eyebrows, wondering if... _

_ “Saw a lot of shit.” _

_ Ian gazed at him, eyes narrowed. “No, I think you did more than that. I think you saved me.” _

_ “Nah, bitch, you got me all wrong.” Mickey was posturing, a little smile playing over his lips as he gazed at the dirty rooftop between his knees. _

_ “Do I? I don’t think so. That last one- that was bad.” _

_ “Yeah, garling old man balls must be a real hardship.” _

_ “When you’re underage and an unmedicated bipolar? Yeah, it was pretty bad.” _

_ There was a pause. _

_ “Wish I’d been there for real, ya know? Coulda maybe tried to talk you outta that shit.” _

_ “Don’t think I woulda listened back then. I was a pretty rebellious kid.” _

_ “Oh, you sayin you ain’t a rebellious ass adult, too?” _

_ “Maybe that too.” Ian grinned, taking Mickey’s FUCK hand in his. “Whaddya think is goin’ on, out there?” _

_ “Hopefully, we’re winning. Otherwise we’re gonna be takin’ some more of those swan dives soon.” _

_ The two men held hands, and waited below the starless sky. Starless, but not static-filled.  _

_ - _

[ Walla Walla - The Offspring ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQ_kwxmaJ3U)

In the destroyed living room, Mickey’s sister and brothers were nearly finished wrapping the binding around Terry, tying every loose thread to one of his pillars of identity, so he could never be rid of the thing. It was simple, really. He had managed, through his long association with the Fae and their magic, to learn how to avoid the consequences of misusing magic, and slide away whenever it was used on him. They’d basically made him a body suit of mirrors facing inwards, each shard reflecting his own intentions back to him. He would not only be at the mercy of his own sick mind, but he’d be substantially more susceptible to the magic of others. 

After Mickey had stepped into the ring of lightning and fainted, falling next to Gallagher’s passive form, Mandy had stomped into the center of the circle and put Terry in a fearsome headlock. He’d already been weakened and distracted but still. It was  _ badass _ . Plus, they wanted him to remember everything, all of it, getting his ass tricked and handed to him by his own children, his foot soldiers in his personal war. Time for a coup, fucker. It had only worked because they’d been able to lure Terry in with his own vengeance, and distract him with Ian as bait. 

Tony was handling the weaving of the metaphorical mirrors as Colin checked the possible outcomes for each of their efforts in the world-weave, making sure they stayed on the one path. Jamie and Iggy used their powers to load the spells and charms Mickey and Mandy had prepared into the binding. Terry had fought like a bitch, but no physical strength could outfight magic, and no father could win when facing all of his natural children in battle against him. 

A brilliant flash of light began to pulse around Terry’s body, flowing in and out with every one of the shaky beats of his decayed heart. The pulsing sped up, increasing in speed from a strobe into a continuous beam, its radiance outshining the day’s early sunlight. All the conscious beings in the room held up hands, shading their eyes from the burning light. When the pulse faded away, the lightning had gone too, along with Terry’s physical form. All that was left in the circle were Mickey and Ian, curled together, and Mandy beside them, arms sheltering the two. 

  
  



	8. You don't need to worry/ You and me gonna light the sky/Cause we'll light up the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
> (Or maybe … to be continued?)

[ BØRNS - Electric Love ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYr96YYEaZY)

The first thing Mickey looked for when he opened his eyes was Terry, but there was no trace of him, _thank fuck_. Next, he scanned the floor for the knife, which lay glinting evilly next to Mandy’s sneaker-clad foot. Before he could even open his mouth to warn her, Iggy had grabbed it, using the ratty front of his t-shirt wrapped around his hand as a precaution. 

Mickey’s brother, the one no one ever took seriously, closed his eyes, and for once, Mickey could taste the power flowing from his heart to the wicked weapon, which disappeared as if it had fallen down a deep well. 

“The fuck was that?” Jamie asked, confused.

“Horn o’ Plenty works both ways, likes it when I give somethin’ back now and then,” Iggy explained with a shrug, as if _that_ made any sense at all. Horn of Plenty was a type of power, not a thing that had preferences and - ya know what? Mickey was exhausted. Too tired to deal with Iggy’s weird-ass relationship with his power.

Ian and Mandy had shuffled apart from him, and they sat in a rough triangle in the center of the space where the lightning circle had been. Mickey slid over until he could lean his head on Ian’s shoulder, bone-weary from the ordeal they’d been through. Ian didn’t say anything, but he did bring one hand up to rub the center of Mickey’s back, between his shoulder blades and wings.

Eventually, each sibling betook him or herself to a bedroom or hidey hole, needing to process and lick some metaphorical wounds, leaving Mickey and Ian alone in the living room. Ian pulled Mickey around on the poorly varnished floor until they were facing each other, and crooked one finger under the pale chin, tipping Mickey’s face up so they could lock eyes. Ian’s usually friendly puppy-dog eyes darkened wolfishly as they studied Mickey. 

Mickey wrenched his chin away. “Ey, I ain’t ready for your dick up my ass right this second, I kinda just participated in some patricide.” He didn’t want to meet the green eyes, didn’t want to deal with the onslaught of feelings and talking- he was just so tired of it all.

“Don’t worry, Mick. I’m gonna take you to bed, but I won’t fuck you until you beg me for it.” The low voice, husky, was both comforting and worrisome.

“Never begged for any dick in my life. Not gonna be the first time.”

“Don’t want you to beg for _any_ dick, only my dick, Mickey.”

Mickey tried to process the meaning behind the statement, but was distracted when Ian lifted him up bodily and carried him, bridal fashion, to the bedroom. 

He dropped Mickey on the bed, and knelt, beginning to untie Mickey’s tightly laced boots. Mickey watched, unable to do more. Living through Ian’s trauma, watching all the things that had made him want to die, then feeling Terry’s life-thread shorten and thin, subthreads snapping with every twist: he felt like he’d aged during the past hours. Ian simply continued his gentle ministrations, eventually stripping Mickey of all but his worn boxers, then reaching out to flip off the room’s light. It was only the middle of the morning, but Mickey wasn’t going to refuse rest. The blackout curtains on his window did the remainder of the work, and soon Ian was tucked in front of him, one thigh carelessly thrown over Mickey’s. 

“Thank you,” came the whisper.

“For what, Firecrotch?”

“Saving me.”

“Didn’t have a-” Mickey let out a gigantic yawn, “-choice. You kept pullin’ me with you.”

“Nah, I didn’t mean that. Or not just that. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You got about seven seconds before I’m asleep. Shoot.”

“Just wonderin’ if we’re a couple or not.”

That got Mickey’s eyes open, and he searched the freckled face that was so close to his own, both of them sharing the same thin pillow. He groaned, and rolled on top of Ian, pinning the taller man down and flapping his wings lazily in the still, dark room

Ian’s eyes were wide, and Mickey sighed deeply, tasting ocean salt, burning fire and ozone, all uniquely _Ian_.

“Course we are.” He leaned down, letting their lips brush lightly. “Of fuckin’ course we are.” His eyes were closed as the kiss deepened, but suddenly he realized Ian had stopped kissing him back.

When he opened his eyes, the room was bathed in a soft radiance. _The fuck?_

“Your wings, Mick. They’re- they’re glowing.”

That was new.

-

By 4pm, everyone had rested enough to come back together for an impromptu late lunch. Mickey had taken Tony aside and asked him about the glowing wings. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s some fated mate thing I heard of. Or Terry’s binding of you coming loose? You two are totally bound in the tapestry of life though. The weft is solid gold.”

It wasn’t the binding. He could feel that one, had felt it as soon as it happened, like a heavy cloak that he’d been wearing his whole life being suddenly lifted away from his- from his fucking _heart_ . He felt light, even a little giddy. But he’d only just agreed to being _together_ and now they were fated mates? He resolved not to tell Ian about that quite yet. 

The feeling of anxiety came over him, and his wings started to flutter, like moth wings as they seek out a light to kill themselves on. Mickey wasn’t a moth. He stayed in his seat, wings and feathers flexing and releasing.

But it’s not panic about his fate as much as feeling free, suddenly. Like his feelings had been muted by the binding and now- he’s awash in the details of Gallagher sitting across the table, not just of his body but of the nooks and crannies of his mind, the places they’d hidden together, the scenes he’d been dropped into. It made sense, really.

As he looked around the table at each of his siblings, it felt like he had new sight, was seeing a new band of vision. Each person, aside from Ian, had a shadowy outline standing beside or near him or her. The outline was filled with smoke, there were no identifying features, though each was clearly different. Actually, Mandy had two outlines near her. Mickey tried not to think too deeply about the figures, could feel no ill intent flowing from any of them. 

It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror when he went to piss that it made sense. Instead of a shadowy outline, the figure beside him was filled in. His outline had red hair, obvious freckles, and dark, almost black eyes filled with smoke. He returned to the table, stopping to drop a quick kiss on Gallagher’s soft hair. His siblings all stared, and he gave them the finger.

-

A noise from the street, an unusual susurration of wind, perhaps, caught their attention. Mandy made it to the door first, swinging it wide to stare down the street. There, a procession of melanistic and albino animals strode down the center of the road. All the Milkovich’s and Ian stood on the porch of the house, gaping silently, unwilling to break whatever enchantment had befallen the Southside that cold afternoon. 

A solid black emperor penguin led the column, followed by a scampering black squirrel. Behind them hopped a white crow, accompanied by a white and orange striped zebra. The weird whining of the wind, the eerie quality of the light, and the complete lack of traffic all contributed to the fundamental unreality of the scene. 

Trailing at the end of the column was a pure white peacock. In front of 1955 South Trumbull, it stopped its rarified strut, and turned, making its way gracefully up the steps. The people on the porch all stepped back to make room, sucking in a collective breath. The door remained wide open.

The white peacock seemed determined to enter the house, but just as it stepped across the threshold, it disintegrated, falling into a fluffy pile of white feathers on the floor of the living room.

“Oh fuck,” Iggy moaned, “We broke it!”

No one hit him this time. When they looked back at the street, the train of animals was gone, with no trace they had ever been there. Cars whipped down the street like any other day.

Carefully, Mickey stepped back into the house, making sure not to tread on the pile of feathers. He could feel some type of power emanating from them, one which felt both familiar and fearsome. His boyfriend and his family followed suit, until they all stood in the living room around the mass of white.

Jamie took the plunge first, crouching down to thrust his hand into the jumble. When he pulled his arm back, he held not a feather but a thick white envelope, addressed in silvery script: _Fadey Taras Milkovich_.

One by one, the Milkovich siblings reached their hands into the steadily diminishing white collection, pulling letters meticulously addressed to each of them. Tony, _Anton Danylko Milkovich_ , Colin, _Kyrylo Yakiv Milkovich_ , Iggy, _Ivan Yosyp Milkovich_ , Mickey, _Mikhailo Vasyl Milkovich_ , and Mandy, _Myroslava Tamara Milkovich_. One lone feather remained on the floor.

Hesitantly, Ian went to a knee, reaching for the final feather. As his fingers touched it, a last letter appeared in place of the white feather, addressed to one _Ian Clayton Gallagher_.

The end.

_(Or maybe … to be continued?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a fun excursion into Urban Fantasy!  
> Not sure I should live there, but cool to visit.


End file.
